


Casecation! (all I've ever wanted)

by thewritingotter



Series: Witchfinders AU [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: All The Tropes, Alternate Universe - Human, Cryptids, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Only One Bed, Requited Unrequited Love, Supernatural Elements, Witchfinders AU, updates every other week!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26294989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritingotter/pseuds/thewritingotter
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale go on a much needed holiday, only to find that a magical murder mystery may be afoot. They're witchfinders on the case!---There’s a huge, lacy monstrosity covered in rose spotted sheets smack dab in the middle of their room, a pile of pale pink pillows nearly spilling over its edges. Crowley can’t stop staring at it.“You got us a bed,” Crowley says.“Yep,” Aziraphale says in a most un-Aziraphale manner.“A bed,” Crowley repeats. “Singular.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Witchfinders AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910575
Comments: 49
Kudos: 36





	1. Luke Masters

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks misseditallagain for the beta! You're a gem!

Someone’s made a poo in the hotel pool. It’s sunk on the floor like a great heavy fruitcake and even as the summer winds ripple the water, Crowley can see it in its clear nutty glory. He wonders idly if he would be able to smell it through the salty tang of seaside town air were he to breathe deeply enough.

He turns to tell Aziraphale this only to find that his friend has yet to emerge from the glass doors to the hotel lobby. Crowley scowls. Aziraphale, his clever and brilliant Witchfinder partner, has the very rare talent of cocking up the simplest of bookings. _I just get so nervous_ , Aziraphale had told him once, wringing his soft hands, _how can people just ring each other up, it’s a wonder._ Nervous! His Aziraphale, who once used himself as bait for a werewolf and who once waded into siren infested waters to have a word with a particularly troublesome mermaid. 

Aziraphale’s inability to procure a proper room for them would’ve been far more amusing had they not stayed in too many disgusting rentals. Once when they were tracking a vampire down in Marseilles, they'd ended up in a little apartment close to the beach. Crowley hadn't minded the sun-warmed walls or the partying that seemed to go on well into the night -- it was actually a bit charming with its wide windows and colourful tiled baths. What _was_ awful about it was the dried blood left on one of the rooms, the sheets stained a dark brownish red. Aziraphale had looked so regretful and apologetic, that- well. Crowley has a weakness. He’d wrapped himself in bloody sheets all night.

He sighs, sitting heavily on a plastic pool chair. The poo is still winking up at him, mocking him somehow. The summer heat hasn’t quite settled yet, and even though the sky remains bright with an uncovered sun, the winds are chillier than they should be at this time of the year. He’s overdressed in his dark jeans, dark glasses, and even darker henley, but the cold still finds a way to seep in.

He’s contemplating grabbing his spare jacket from the Bentley when a heavier weight settles next to him, a warm arm snug against his. “What’d you do now?” he asks Aziraphale drily. He can practically feel the guilt radiating from his shorter friend.

“A-ah so there’s a problem with the erm, the rooms,” Aziraphale says, and even without looking at him, Crowley is sure there’s a deep crease between his eyebrows.

“What sort of problem?” he turns to him, and yes there it is. That stricken hangdog look Aziraphale wears when he’s feeling particularly apologetic.

“Firstly, let me preface this by reminding you that this is a _very_ spontaneous holiday,” he says earnestly, "no plans, no organisation just us telling head office to sod off and leave us be because, by George, a man can only function so much after such heartbreak!" Crowley rolls his eyes -- they told the head office no such thing. What they _did_ tell Witchfinder General Beezle was that they'd found strange activities in a small seaside town called Tadfield that may or may not be of supernatural origin. 

That was also a lie; Crowley can’t imagine anything interesting happening in this boring little town. 

Still. 

Bob had dumped Crowley three days ago, and Aziraphale seems adamant to bring Crowley back to his _usual jolly nature_. He can be such a bastard sometimes, Aziraphale. Crowley, as he well knows, has never been, nor ever will be, _jolly_. 

"Just get to the point, angel," Crowley sighs. 

"Secondly," Aziraphale continues, "haven't we been having fun? So much fun, in fact, that I've gone ahead and bought us souvenirs!" He brandishes a pair of postcards, each bearing cheesy shots of the town’s admittedly picturesque cliffs and beaches. Scrawled in a wide garish red script, one of them says _Won’t you stay a tad in Tadfield?_.

“Should’ve bought us t-shirts,” Crowley grumbles even as he takes that postcard carefully. He knows he’ll treasure this silly thing, stare at it in the middle of the night wondering if he’d maybe lost his chance a long time ago.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Oh, come now, I know you hate it when I buy you shirts.” Crowley doesn’t, but he hasn’t the heart to tell Aziraphale that. “Look at us, back to our- to our usual banter. Someone’s feeling a mite cheerier! Perhaps, maybe, because of this wonderful trip so far?”

“Aziraphale, you slept the whole two hour trip here,” Crowley reminds him crossly, “and when I woke you up, you stared up at this hotel for a whole ten seconds with nary a word only to say, and here I quote verbatim, _Have we perhaps made a wrong turn to the wrong Tadfield?_ There’s only one Tadfield, angel!”

Aziraphale winces. Crowley sighs, an apology already at the tip of his tongue, when his friend continues, “That, unfortunately, brings me to my third point.”

“Oh no,” Crowley says, scooting off the chair and to his feet. He knows he can't be upset with Aziraphale if he has front row seats to those big, expressive eyes. He crosses his arms across his narrow chest. "Aziraphale-" 

"You know how Michael has been bragging about that kelpie she caught a week ago?" Crowley nods. She won't shut up about the damn thing. "Well, as you know," Aziraphale continues, "that was my inspiration for this holiday. Sandy beaches, the sea air, it would do us both some good, don't you think?" 

"No," Crowley replies. 

Aziraphale shoots him a look Crowley fondly refers to as _annoyed disappointment_ in his head. Crowley waves a hand impatiently at him to continue. "As I was saying: beaches, sea air. Maybe some of those lovely cliffs in Michael's pictures. And when I was planning this whole thing, well, you can’t blame me really for getting a bit distracted. Scottish beaches are so beautiful this time of the year!”

“Oh no,” Crowley says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, no, no, no, angel, _please_ tell me you hadn’t booked rooms in another hotel.” Aziraphale dips his head, eyes darting away from Crowley’s as he wrings his hands. “Aziraphale-”

The other man mutters something under his breath, a dark embarrassed flush heating up on his cheeks. 

“What-”

“I’ve got us rooms in Tobermory,” Aziraphale whispers in shame.

“Tobermory!”

“Yes, I-” Aziraphale clears his throat, “they both start with a ‘T’, you see and-”

“ _Tobermory_!”

“No need to shout, my dear friend,” Aziraphale says, annoyed even in his embarrassed state, “it was a simple mistake!”

“Tobermory is in _Scotland_ , you daft twit!” Crowley exclaims. “That’s a whole- a whole-” He spreads his hands apart. “A whole _thing_ away!”

“I’m aware of how far Tadfield is from Scotland on a map,” Aziraphale says softly, shoulders hunched, and oh, Crowley can feel himself deflating. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley sighs. He plops down heavily next to his friend again. "No, I'm sorry," he says, "you're not a daft twit. A bit of a prick maybe, but not that." He nudges Aziraphale when the other man chuckles, adorably pleased. 

"Such aspersions cast on my character!" 

"Such aspersions are quite accurate, don't you think?" Aziraphale nudges him back, beaming widely, and Crowley’s heart beats a long familiar note. He looks away and to the pool. “Dagon’s gonna start cutting our expenses at this rate. _Wasting company resources again, Witchfinders? Out to bankrupt the company, eh_?” he says in a poor imitation of Dagon’s dear, cheery voice.

“Actually,” Aziraphale says hesitantly, “I’m… paying for the whole thing.”

Crowley must’ve heard wrong. His hearing has been a bit strange since those pesky sirens happened to them. “Pardon?”

Aziraphale flushes again. “It’s not like I’ve other things to spend my money on!” He protests. This is also a lie -- Aziraphale is a glutton for good food, good wine, and good reads, and he’ll happily empty his wallet for those. 

“But, you’ve been saving up for your bookshop,” Crowley says dumbly.

Aziraphale waves this away. “Yes, well. That _will_ happen eventually, but,” it’s his turn to look away now, the blush still present in his cheeks, “I just want my friend to be happy again.”

Oh. “Even if it means going on a holiday with this,” Crowley asks, gesturing at his sad, sad self.

Aziraphale smiles. “Especially if it means I’m here with you,” he says earnestly. “You know, Crowley, I do so love-” Crowley’s heart thumps so loudly he swears the pool ripples when it hears, “-spending time with you.”

 _Of course_. “Quite right,” Crowley says, shoulders dropping.

His disappointment must be quite obvious -- Aziraphale pats his hand twice delicately. “Cheer up, my friend!” Here his voice lowers, serious and comforting. “I know Bobert was- was quite dear to you, Crowley. And I know it’ll be hard overcoming this heartbreak, but, well. You’ll find something like it again. Maybe not now, but eventually.”

“His name’s Bob. Just Bob,” Crowley says distractedly, eyes drawn to the hand Aziraphale’s settled over his. Hesitantly, and not without the gentlest of squeezes, Aziraphale withdraws it. Crowley clears his throat. “Got that from a _what to say to a dumped friend_ list, angel?”

“No.” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “The Google helped. Just- just a tad,” Aziraphale admits unconvincingly, presenting a small gap between his thumb and index finger.

Crowley, who’s given up on convincing Aziraphale it’s just Google and not _the Google_ (he’s probably just being a little shit anyway), laughs fondly. _How_ is this silly little man so adorable? “Of course it did.” He sighs as he looks back out to the pool, the breeze and sunlight glinting charmingly against it. “What’re we gonna do, angel?” He asks tiredly. “We haven’t got a room and it pains me to admit this, but we might be too old to sleep in the Bentley overnight.”

“Erm,” Aziraphale starts reluctantly, “I’ve got us a room actually.”

“Oh, cheers!” Crowley frowns when Aziraphale studiously avoids his eyes. “What’s all this-” he gestures at Aziraphale fussing with his pinky ring, the worried pinch in his face, “What’s all this then?”

“The room,” Aziraphale swallows heavily, “the room is the problem, you see.”

There’s a huge, lacy monstrosity covered in rose spotted sheets smack dab in the middle of their room, a pile of pale pink pillows nearly spilling over its edges. Crowley can’t stop staring at it.

“You got us a bed,” Crowley says.

“Yep,” Aziraphale says in a most un-Aziraphale manner.

“A bed,” Crowley repeats. “ _Singular_.”

Aziraphale fidgets with the handle of his floral suitcase uncomfortably. “Yep.”

Crowley pinches the bellboy when he passes by with the rest of their luggage in tow. “Ow, what was that for?” the bellboy yelps, rubbing his arm. Wanker, Crowley hadn’t even pinched him that hard.

“Wanted to know if we’re in a dream,” Crowley says.

“Well that’s what pinching yourself is for, innit?” the bellboy fumes.

Crowley shrugs. “Didn’t want to hurt myself.”

The bellboy scowls. “Bloody minger.”

“Oi!” Crowley yelps as Aziraphale admonishes, “Language!”

“Whatever.” He holds his hand out. 

“What- what is this?” Crowley asks, glaring at the bellboy’s outstretched hand. 

“Can be anything you can spare,” the boy says.

Crowley crosses his arms. “What if I haven’t got anything to spare?” he says challengingly.

Refusing to back down, the bellboy meets his eyes squarely. Brave boy. “Well, that would make you a stingy prick, won’t it? Sir.”

Before Crowley can growl out an appropriate response, Aziraphale steps between them, slapping a couple of bills into the outstretched hand. “Crowley, honestly.” To the bellboy he says, “thank you, dear boy. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Don’t bother,” the boy says as he tucks Aziraphale’s money away in his trousers. “Cheers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbles, slamming the door behind him. The utter _cheek_.

“It’s all topped up,” Aziraphale says when Crowley whirls around to face him.

“Pardon?”

“The hotel,” Aziraphale explains, “it’s topped up for the weekend. Some sort of boating show at the next town over.” He sighs. “You must be tired of me cocking everything up.”

“Nonsense,” Crowley says, because really, this isn't as much of a cock up as say, Ligur mistaking sugar for salt in a very important demonic interrogation. 

Besides, Crowley has had plenty of good dreams that start this way: him and Aziraphale off in some sort of get-away, having to share a bed and… Other things. Sometimes cuddles happen even. But that isn’t the sort of thing one says to his best friend when said best friend is only trying his hardest to try to cheer one up after a break-up. “I-I’m sure we can make this work.”

“I can sleep in the bath?” Aziraphale suggests, worrying his bottom lip. 

"No, naaah, that would be murder on your back," Crowley says. Aziraphale's back hasn't been the same since a centaur had tossed him about like a ragdoll. Dear Tomas wasn't keen on them when they first met. 

"All I'll need are a few sheets and cushions," Aziraphale continues, blue eyes sweeping up and across the mountainous pile on the bed. 

Crowley grimaces. "Maybe a rag or two if there's mold. Like that rental in Paris?" They both shudder in horror. They try not to speak about Paris. 

"In any case," Aziraphale continues, tugging his suitcase to the bathroom, "I'll… I'll survive. _We've_ survived worse things." Oh no, Crowley can feel a _Bad Idea_ threatening to bubble up and over his lips. 

He clears his throat of it. "What if I need to go for a piss in the middle of the night?" Crowley asks weakly. "Wake you up for a bit of a wee?" 

"Oh, I won't mind, I'm sure."

"I'm a shy pisser," Crowley goes on, wondering what his point is and where it's gone. 

Aziraphale turns an interesting shade of red. "What, do you think I'm going to sneak a-" 

"No!" Crowley exclaims, perhaps a bit too loudly. "No, no, no, no, no not at all. Yeah. No." 

"Not- never!" 

"Yep!" 

"Absolutely." 

Crowley scratches at his neck, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. That _Bad Idea_ is back in his throat again. "Well-" he starts as Aziraphale gestures to the bathroom and says, "I best get-" They both stop, staring at each other. 

Aziraphale breaks the silence first; he laughs uncomfortably as he bends to take his leather purse thing (Crowley'd lugged it up to their room. It's a lot heavier than it looks and he's absolutely certain it's loaded with some of Aziraphale's favourite books). "I should-" 

"Share the bed with me!" Crowley blurts out so suddenly it startles both of them. His hand itches to slap over his traitorous mouth, but he knows it'll just make everything worse. 

Aziraphale stares at him, suddenly looking quite lost with his coat sliding off over one shoulder under the strap of his ridiculously heavy leather bag. He laughs again. "Oh dear, I'm afraid we can't possibly fit in-" 

Crowley shoves pillows over the sides of the bed. Throwing himself onto the mattress, he stretches out spread eagled to demonstrate just how roomy it is. Pleased that it is indeed as large as he'd thought, he compresses himself again. Patting the space beside him, he says, “It’s big, innit? It’s what, a queen? We can both _definitely_ fit.” Now that the idea’s out there, hanging awkwardly between them, Crowley finds it all the more appealing.

Aziraphale worries his bottom lip. “I suppose…”

“Look,” Crowley says, “we’re both friends, aren’t we?”

The other man smiles at him. “Best friends.”

That shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. “Y-yeah, yes. _Best_ friends,” Crowley agrees, if not a bit sourly. “You’ve stitched me up, I’ve stitched you up. We’ve spent… so many uncomfortable moments together.” This is true: once, Crowley had to rescue a naked Aziraphale from a very perverted and very gassy kappa, and despite having successfully protected his friend’s virtue, Crowley had somehow still managed to get an eyeful. He’d nearly combusted. “This,” he gestures towards the bed, “this is nothing in the grand scheme of things! Just two- two friendly blokes sharing a bed together. Two pals being pals!” Crowley chuckles bitterly to himself. “It’s not as if we harbour, oh, I don’t know, secret romantic feelings for each other.”

Aziraphale laughs softly at this. “Yes I- of course, you’re right,” he acquiesces, apparently oblivious to Crowley’s misery. He lays down gingerly next to him, linking his hands over his tummy. “I’m sorry, Crowley,” he says softly. “I know I’ve been... extraordinarily strange. I’m just trying to be considerate of your feelings.”

Crowley groans. “Consulting Google again, angel?”

“Ye- No!” Aziraphale pouts up at him. Crowley smirks back, raising an eyebrow to complete the look. “The Google has been a great resource.”

“Oh, come off it!”

“It has!” Aziraphale places a hand between them. “You have to understand, Crowley,” he says earnestly, eyes big, “I… I care for you. And I care for your happiness. I know- I may sound like I’m mocking your relationship with Bobothy at times-”

“You’ve never- angel, you’ve never mocked us,” Crowley says breathlessly, stuck on _I care for you_. “You’ve been great. You’ve always been great.”

“You’re too kind.”

“You know I’m very well not.”

Aziraphale smiles up at him. “You have to be to keep up with bumbling old me.”

“You’re not old.” Crowley rolls his eyes to punctuate his words, heartened when Aziraphale huffs a laugh out. “And you’re not- not- not-” he frowns deeply. “Bumbly. Not bumbly at all.”

“Well said.”

“Oh, shut up!” He grins as Aziraphale giggles, leaning over on his side to turn fully to Crowley. “I suspect you’ve been trying to get me grumpy all day, angel.”

“It _is_ your usual mood,” Aziraphale says. “Grumpy, old, familiar Crowley.”

“You’re a glutton for punishment, you are.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way.” It’s quite embarrassing, really, how Aziraphale can stun him into silence so easily like this. “You’re dear to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale continues in a soft whisper, as if he’s confiding a precious secret. Crowley’s heart, which had been quiet so far, suddenly speeds up, beating so loudly he fears Aziraphale can hear it. It would be so easy, he thinks, to just reach over and take Aziraphale’s hand, whisper back how much he cares for him too, that his favourite days are the ones spent together.

Even the hellish few they’d spent in Paris.

He’s opening his mouth to tell him this, bare his heart fully, when Aziraphale continues, “And I know Bob is the love of your life. He has to be -- your love for him was the sort of love that even _sirens_ can’t tempt you away from. But I- well. I’m here for you.”

Oh, right, of course. It wasn’t- Aziraphale’s just here to perform his duties as a concerned friend. This is on Crowley, really, expecting more from where there isn’t really anything to begin with. “As my best friend,” Crowley confirms miserably.

Aziraphale lays on his back, hand withdrawing over to his tummy. “Of course. As your _best_ best friend.”

“Of course,” Crowley echoes, trying to slap some false cheer over his sheer disappointment. “I suppose it’s only right that I tell you you’re… dear to me too.”

Aziraphale smiles, a sweet lovely thing. “Quite right.”

“I’ve actually done a bit of research on Tadfield,” Aziraphale says, as he hands Crowley a red ice lolly. 

“Mmm, is that so?” Crowley replies. He eyes his lolly dubiously -- he’s never been one for sweets.

“Oh, no, thank you.” Aziraphale smiles, refusing change from the woman behind the cart, and Crowley’s sure, judging from the incredulous look on her face, that Aziraphale has yet again absent-mindedly paid too much for their ice cream. Crowley shrugs back when the woman turns to him as if to say _are you seeing this?_. Sometimes it’s the only appropriate response. 

“So, er, Tadfield.”

“Yes?”

“What about it?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale starts making his way to the beach, tugging Crowley along. The boardwalk under their feet fades into soft, downy grass as they follow the gentle slope of a hill. It eases into sand eventually, and despite it being a bit chilly, Crowley looks forward to taking his shoes off and sinking his toes into the sand. “Not much of a supernatural presence here,” Aziraphale continues, waving his 99 flake as he gestures around, “although it appears they have local legends. Regular things, not too unusual like Corny the ghost -- fairies, shape-shifting dogs, hobgoblins.”

“Sounds like your everyday little town,” Crowley says.

“Mmhmm.” Aziraphale takes a long thoughtful lick of his ice cream. “I’ve a theory.”

Crowley perks up. Aziraphale’s theories are rarely wrong. “Do you?”

The other man nods, and after a flick of his finger so the flake is centered properly in his ice cream, he goes on, “There’s a consistency to these legends, I noticed, particularly in the ones about a fairy queen and a barghest. Hardly any deviations from descriptions and patterns of their behaviours through centuries of stories. Really, it’s a wonder no one’s thought to hunt them yet.”

Crowley’s eyes widen from behind his sunglasses. “You think they’re real.”

Aziraphale beams at him. “Oh, they are most definitely real.”

“Angel, please tell me we’re not hunting them,” Crowley groans. Now that he’s fully relaxed into holiday mode, he’s reluctant to don his Witchfinder hat, so to speak. Hats ruin his hair. 

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “Oh, no, no, dear friend. I think these creatures are best let be. I actually think, well. Gabriel must think me silly to even consider this-”

“Sod Gabriel,” Crowley sneers. 

Aziraphale laughs. “Well in any case, I thought maybe these creatures are not the malevolent forces of old. They’re… Tadfield’s own guardians, if you will. And I don’t blame them really. If I lived here, if I had to see all of this,” he gestures out to the sea, “this beauty everyday? I would want to protect it as well.”

They both look out over the vast ocean, the water glinting in pretty yellow and oranges as the sun begins its slow descent to sunset. Long grass sways in the breeze gently, whispering soft comforting music along with the delighted shrieks and laughter on the beach, and cliffs loom over them all like proud sentinels, ominous and protective at once. Crowley imagines that it would feel like flying if he were to look over their edges.

He turns to tell Aziraphale this, maybe ask if they can go over to the cliffs tomorrow, and oh, maybe the sun is shining funny on his glasses or something -- he’s struck dumb at the sight of his friend lit in lovely hues, blue eyes pale as they reflect the ocean. The sun lights his mop of hair into a brilliant yellow-white, profile bleeding into the bright sky, and Crowley’s painfully reminded of how he can never have this just to himself. He hurriedly turns away, clearing his throat.

“It’s sort of frightening, innit?” He examines his quickly melting ice lolly, resolving to toss it in the closest bin. 

“What is?”

“Having a quiet, dangerous thing guarding you. Never knowing when it’ll strike. It’s like having a bomb in your hands, and knowing it’ll kill all your enemies, but you also have absolutely no reassurance that you would be saved from the blast as well.” 

Aziraphale frowns. “That’s a bleak way of seeing things.”

Crowley shrugs. “Can't blame me. We've seen… We've seen too many things, angel. Sentient or not, some creatures find ways to destroy even the things they love."

"Like humans do." 

"Yeah, I suppose,” Crowley frowns. “What?”

“What, what?”

“Your face is doing that funny thing- yes _that_ face!” He points at Aziraphale accusingly. It’s the same one his friend pulls when he’s trying desperately not to be a knob about something.

“I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale says, nose up in the air. 

“You do,” Crowley says, drawing the last syllable out.

“You can’t expect the worst out of everyone, is all,” Aziraphale says a touch condescendingly, taking a neat bite of his flake and ice cream. “You might surprise yourself.”

Crowley wants to tell him he surprises him every day, but he holds his tongue. He shakes his head. “You’re much too optimistic,” he says instead.

“There’s no better way to be,” his sweet, eternally anxious friend says. Crowley makes a disagreeing noise. “Well, I’m sure I can get you to agree in time.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I’m no pushover, angel.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure.” Gradually, the grass melts into sand, and before long, Aziraphale’s pulling him to a bench on the edges of the beach with a sticky hand, beaming at him bright and smug when Crowley follows obediently. Well, he can’t possibly allow this; Crowley breaks a piece of Aziraphale’s flake, popping it in his mouth with a smirk.

“You!” Aziraphale gasps. “You- you b- you _bad_ person!”

Crowley laughs. “That the worst thing you can think of, angel? My, I am _aghast_!” Aziraphale sticks his bottom lip out. “Are you- are you pouting?” Crowley asks incredulously.

“No,” Aziraphale denies, taking a huge flake-less bite of ice cream pointedly.

“You are!” Crowley laughs. “Dear lord, you are!”

Aziraphale only pushes his lower lip out stubbornly, upturned nose tilted to the sky. There’s a bit of ice cream staining his cheek, and Crowley laughs fondly at him, at this lovely, lovely man in his hilarious idea of a holiday shirt -- a white shirt with a banana in a swing, aptly labeled _banana hammock_ \-- holding a fast melting cone. He finds it ridiculous that Aziraphale can be so oblivious to the warmth spreading in Crowley’s own chest when he so often causes it.

“You absolute child,” he chides, placing a hand on the swell of Aziraphale’s cheek. He wipes at the stain. “You can’t take the high road when you’re-” Aziraphale gasps softly, pink lips parting. Crowley freezes. _Oh_. He should pull away, laugh at this or maybe, preferably, pretend that he hadn’t just caressed his best friend’s soft face, when he thinks, _maybe maybe maybe_. Hyper focused now on his thumb, he spreads it in a gentle arc, taking special care to leave it just shy of the other man’s mouth.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and when Crowley looks up at him at last, there’s a blush on his face, so sweet and pretty. Aziraphale places a hand over Crowley’s, eyes sliding away from his apologetically, “Crowley, there’s-”

A scream rips through the air between them. In an instant, they’re both on their feet, odd moment forgotten and eyes sharp as they survey the area around them. An alertness settles over Crowley’s shoulders like a well-worn coat as he cases the area. He may be uncertain of a lot of things, but Crowley knows this, understands and revels in the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the anticipation of something dangerous. The peace that had blanketed Tadfield during the day seems to have gone, and in its place, an unease smothers them -- the sea seems louder, the cliffs more threatening than protective.

“There,” Aziraphale says, head tilted towards the cliffs. Blue eyes dart down to Crowley’s boots, and then up again.

Crowley nods. He’s never without his silver knife, and he knows that, even without his silver sword and blessed daggers, Aziraphale can still be quite deadly with just a few packets of salt and the litany of prayers and spells he’d long stored in that big brain of his. 

Aziraphale nods back, pleased,and he’s about to take off when Crowley grabs his wrist. “Angel,” Crowley says, motioning towards his 99 flake. Aziraphale hands it over without a fuss, and Crowley tosses both sweets into a nearby bin. They’re witchfinders, not littering heathens.

They jog to the cliffs, weaving through curious onlookers, and at the base they find a tight knot of people surrounding a soggy pair of unmoving legs. A few of them are calling the police, Crowley's pleased to note, but a fair bit are just milling about, gawking at the scene like children who don't quite know what to do. There's a young woman crying in the midst of it, dark head dipped under the hug of a massive man, as a boy with long hair pokes at what looks very much like a very pale bruised dead body. 

Aziraphale looks over at him questioningly, and before he can even say a word, Crowley immediately knows what he’s supposed to do. Donning the stern, authoritative persona he’s used so many times, he straightens up from his slouch, shoulders back and stomach tucked in. Aziraphale likes to tease about how reliable he looks when he wears this, so unlike his usual reckless swagger, but Crowley finds it comforting, pretending to be someone who knows what to do in every situation.

Clearing his throat, he says loudly, “Stand aside, leave it some space!” A chunk of the crowd parts to let him through to the huddled family, some even dispersing in boredom. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Aziraphale duck down next to the body, examining it carefully. He knows the drill -- if it looks anything at all like a regular human death, they’re leaving it be. 

The large man straightens as Crowley approaches, gently nudging the woman he’s cradled in his arms. “You the cops?” he asks Crowley, American accent clipped and exact.

“Someone’s called, yeah,” Crowley hedges. Witchfinder 101: never get involved in human investigations as much as possible. “What have we got here?”

The man frowns. “You tell me,” he says, cross, “Harriet- my wife found a _dead fucking body_ on the beach! What is it even- I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with this country, but this is not right!”

“Certainly,” Crowley replies. To her, he says, “I’d like a full account of the events.” She looks up hesitantly. “Just anything you remember.”

The man glowers, face turning a bright red. “I told you-”

“Thad, please,” the woman says as she valiantly wipes her tears away. “Sorry, I’m a total mess, aren’t I? I just-” she peers back at the body only to shudder and look hastily back away. A carcass, Crowley supposes, isn’t a normal sight for regular, beach loving tourists. “Warlock and I were walking down by the water. He wanted to see cliffs, you see. There aren’t a lot of them where we live.”

“Just a lot of flat land in America,” the man rumbles. “Prairie land.”

Harriet nods. “He- Warlock. He ran ahead, shouting about seeing something exciting. And I thought nothing of it, you know, kids are always so excitable. He thinks a fat frog is exciting and- sorry, I’m getting distracted.” She tucks a lock of short, dark hair behind an ear.

“Take your time,” Crowley reassures her.

“Shouldn’t you be writing this down?” Thad asks gruffly.

Crowley shrugs. “I’ve a good memory.”

Thad scoffs, but before he can interrupt, Harriet places a gentle hand on his arm, looking up at him imploringly. “Honey, leave it.” He melts under her gaze, dipping his head to kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry,” she says to Crowley, “it’s been- it’s been a hard day. I suppose this is nothing in your line of work.” She gestures over to the body.

“Every case is different,” he replies as vaguely as possible.

“Of course.” She stares off to the distance. “I saw his shoes first. I’ve been looking for shoes for Thad lately- fancy ones,” she amends when her husband gapes at her in surprise. Blushing a pretty pink, she continues, “for our anniversary. I found us this nice Italian restaurant- anyway. Those shoes. They’re expensive, I can tell you that, not bespoke but there’s fine craftsmanship there. Warlock was calling for me excitedly, and I hurried along. I thought, just my luck, having found these nice shoes on a beach, on our vacation!" Her eyes darken." But then the shoes made way for those legs and then that torso and then- then-” She buries her face in her husband’s chest, Thad wrapping his arms around her.

“Are we done here?” he asks Crowley, the stress of the day clear on the tired lines of his face.

“Yeah, I’ve got all I need,” he replies. “I know it was harrowing," he tells her, "it's not everyday one sees a corpse on a beach." They both chuckle softly at that. "But, thank you. You’ve been quite helpful. _Both_ of you,” he says catching Thad’s eyes.

“You’ll get to the bottom of this,” Thad demands.

“I can’t make any promises.” Over the distance, there’s a shriek of laughter.

“Stop touching the dead body, Warlock,” Thad calls out. The long-haired boy looks up from where he’s in deep conversation with Aziraphale, little face pinched in irritation. 

“But dad-”

“Warlock, darling, please,” the wife says. Aziraphale leans over to tell the boy something, passing him a pair of plastic gloves. Of course the blonde would have those somewhere in his person.

“I’ve got gloves!” Warlock yells, brandishing them proudly. “Mr. Fell gave me gloves!”

“Who?” Thad asks.

“My colleague,” Crowley says. “Now-” There’s a flash behind him, and when he whirls around, he sees a man snapping pictures of the American couple. “Bloody gossips," Crowley grumbles irritably. “Oi, you!” The man -- young, upturned collar, annoyingly ginger -- perks up in surprise. “This isn’t a bloody performance! Go on!”

“Been snapping pictures all day, mate,” the man says, raising thin eyebrows. “I ain’t leavin’.”

"Well you better, _mate_ ," Crowley growls, "before I break your precious camera." 

"This is police brutality, this is," the man says even as he flinches.

“If I may,” a quiet nervous voice starts before Crowley can reply with something more acidic. Aziraphale steps forward, hands linked behind his back. “I’ve seen you take some very grand, important pictures.”

“Cheers,” the man replies, tossing Crowley a smug smile.

“Indeed. Now, as you know, this is an investigation-”

“Obviously-”

“-And we’d very much like to take your camera in as evidence,” Aziraphale carries on, voice more confident as he takes reign of the conversation. Crowley is only a little bit proud of him. 

The man clutches his camera closer. “I can send you copies?” he asks uncertainly.

“Oh, no, no, no, we need those pictures _post haste_!” Crowley declares, cottoning on.

“Apologies, but we _are_ in quite a hurry,” Aziraphale adds. “We haven’t got much time, really, and if I were to be completely honest,” and here he leans close, whispering to the man conspiratorially, “we haven’t got much of a budget either. Head office hasn’t been giving us proper time to finish our cases, and we're tasked with gathering as much evidence as soon as possible." Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "Hardly a dream job, isn't it? Being treated like useless gophers."

The man laughs despite his uncertainty. "Bloody head offices. Made up of a bunch of wankers, they are."

"Indeed. So you see, we’d very much appreciate it if you,” Aziraphale trails off, gesturing to the camera. 

The man hesitates, the earlier bravado gone in the face of Aziraphale’s earnestness. 

Aziraphale’s face falls. “I wouldn't want to trouble you,” he continues, “but I wouldn’t want to turn a blind eye to obstruction of the course of justice. I am, after all, a man of the law.”

The other man's eyes wide. "Is that a threat?" he whispers, surprised at the sudden turn of the conversation. 

"Oh, no, no," Aziraphale protests. "No, dear boy, I'm simply warning you. I've been around for awhile now," Crowley snickers at this, "and I know how insidious this system is. You seem like a good man. I know you'll do the right thing."

Puffed up in reluctant pride, the man hastily pulls his camera off his neck, pushing it towards Aziraphale’s ready hands. “Anything for the law, eh?” he says before taking off quickly. 

Crowley laughs. “Well, that was easy, wasn’t it?” He loves watching Aziraphale goad and bait people. He's anxious half the time, reluctant to question people alone, but his self-righteousness often gives way to something more petty and vindictive. It’s like some odd little game he plays with people who irritate him.

“It _was_ great fun,” Aziraphale says with a pleased little wiggle. Over the hill where the ice cream cart is, a troop of uniformed men make their way to the cliffs. “We best leave now.” Crowley nods. 

Stealing into another group of people, they slink by unnoticed as they pass the coppers. They trek their way back over the hill and onto the boardwalk, weaving through the crowd that had gathered to watch the proceedings. Before long, they’d tucked themselves into Crowley’s car, safe and quiet. It’s ridiculous, really, Crowley thinks as he eyes people snapping pictures of the event. Humans will make a spectacle out of anything.

In the horizon, the sun sets, painting the landscape in a harsh red wash. Street lamps are lit, and darkness is seeping through the colours from their covered corners. It’s quite lovely, despite the dead body on the beach. 

Surely, Crowley thinks, there’s no reason at all that it’d distract them from their holiday. It looks like your regular human death after all -- a jump from those cliffs. He’s certain whatever investigation the coppers are cooking up will be done in a day or two.

He’s about to tell Aziraphale this, maybe suggest they grab dinner from that oyster place they’d spied earlier, when the other man says, “It’s a case, Crowley.”

Crowley makes a face. “No, naaah. It can’t be. It’s a suicide if anything.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I wish it were,” he says grimly. Taking the camera, he begins flipping through pictures. “I thought it was normal at first,” he continues, “well, as normal as a suspicious death can be. Lacerations and bruises ‘round the body from having been tossed about in the sea, injury on the head from probably hitting rocks when he fell from the cliffs. But as I looked closer, I noticed that he had rips on his shirt that were inconsistent to ones you would find on a body that had been carried away by the waves."

"Inconsistent," Crowley echoes, "what do you mean? They weren't ripped organically or summat?" 

Aziraphale nods. "The sea is an energetic thing," he says, "and even if he were floating around in placid water, there would still be creatures about."

Crowley frowns. "But that would mean…"

"His shirt was sliced through," Aziraphale confirms. "He was stabbed with a wide blade, cleanly and with great precision.”

Crowley whistles. “They’ve got a murder case. I don’t even think a town like this would be well equipped for homicide.”

“It’s… a bit worrying.”

“Sorry, go on, angel.”

Aziraphale smiles at him in thanks. “Anyway, I pushed his clothes aside, and instead of the hole I was expecting to find, I found dark, cauterised flesh.”

Crowley's eyes widen. “Stabbed _and_ burned? That’s… pretty brutal, isn't it?"

Aziraphale nods excitedly. “Still not the strangest thing,” he says. “Crowley, his flesh it-” he pushes the camera into Crowley’s hand, gesturing towards the photo. Crowley feels his skin crawl. “His flesh was still _burning_.”

In the picture, the man’s torso is glowing in quiet embers, like a fire dying slowly after having burned so fiercely. “Well, shit, angel,” he gasps, “you sure know how to pick your holidays.”


	2. Roxxy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley guffaws, flopping back down on the hideous covers. What a bloody eyesore. Pillowing his head in his arms, he grins mischievously up at his friend. “Seriously, Aziraphale,” he purrs, “if you wanted me in the same bed so badly, you could’ve just said so!” They both freeze, all of Aziraphale’s previous fussing halted so abruptly it alarms Crowley. 
> 
> \-- in which Crowley talks to a siren and deals with the logistics of sharing a bed with the person he most definitely isn't pining for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks misseditallagain!

"Which one do you reckon it is?" Crowley says where he’s sprawled all over the bed.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale asks. He’s sat primly on the one corner Crowley’s limbs have ceded to him, a container of takeaway pasta balanced carefully on his knee. Swallowing the bit of food in his mouth, he looks up from his scampi. “What do you mean?”

“Earlier, you said you believed they have a barghest and fairy queen ‘round here. Which one do you think killed that bloke?”

“Neither,” Aziraphale says decidedly.

“Oh? You certain?”

Aziraphale pops a piece of shrimp delicately into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “The injuries sustained aren’t consistent with their usual _modus operandi_. Barghests maul, fairy queens tempt.”

Crowley hums in agreement. “Well, the murder weapon could be hell-forged. Possible connection to the queen?” 

Aziraphale mulls this over a small, neat sip of complimentary wine. “Possibly,” he concedes hesitantly.

Crowley grins. “Aww, you don’t like it when I poke holes in your theories,” he teases. “Can’t stand it when you’re wrong, can you?”

“That’s because I rarely am,” Aziraphale says snobbishly. Crowley laughs. Sometimes he forgets that Aziraphale and Gabriel are cousins, and sometimes, well, there’s this.

He gestures around their room, at the scalloped edges of the lone tissue box, the yellow rotary phone that refuses to work, the tacky pink and yellow-green wallpaper, and the clock that has probably been stuck at 3:47 since the late 80’s. “You’re telling me _this_ wasn’t a mistake?” 

Aziraphale flushes. “Well, one can hardly be perfect.”

“Of course, of course.” Crowley raises himself on his elbows to get a better vantage point of his friend’s pink, pink face. “And the Amsterdam flat?” It had thin walls wherein they could hear what sounded like an orgy at the other side. It was a fortunate thing really that he and Aziraphale had been in separate rooms.

“There was a booking confusion,” Aziraphale says, studiously refusing Crowley’s eyes as he mixes his pasta with great concentration.

“Mmhmm,” Crowley hums casually. “Cramped quarters in Barcelona?” It had smelled horribly like rotten ham.

“They _lied_ about that,” Aziraphale says vehemently.

“Uh-huh. Brussels?” They’d had to pass through winding alleyways to get to their small, dirty rental. 

“Also a lie,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“Of course!” Oh, Crowley was enjoying this. “ _Totally_ different from Moscow, eh?” It would have been nice if their rental had actually existed.

Aziraphale takes a small, sad bite of his still unfinished scampi. “... that was a mistake,” he admits quietly after a lengthy chew. 

Crowley guffaws, flopping back down on the hideous covers. What a bloody eyesore. Pillowing his head in his arms, he grins mischievously up at his friend. “Seriously, Aziraphale,” he purrs, “if you wanted me in the same bed so badly, you could’ve just said so!”

They both freeze, all of Aziraphale’s previous fussing halted so abruptly it alarms Crowley. He sits up properly, scooting up against the pillows to give Aziraphale space. “M’sorry,” Crowley says, trying to sound as lightly and casually as he decidedly does not feel. “I… I say stupid things, you know this, angel.”

After a pause that only serves to make Crowley’s heart beat ten times faster, Aziraphale forces a laugh out. “It’s alright,” he says softly. “I’m used to it.”

"Hah!” Crowley dips his head so he can catch Aziraphale’s eyes. It’s a bit… concerning that the other man can’t seem to meet his. “Seriously though, angel, I’m sorry for teasing. I know you don’t-”

Aziraphale laughs again, three distinct _ha_ ’s. “Not at all!” he exclaims

“Of course, yeah!” Crowley says with a bit more pep than he usually has on a normal day. “It’s not- we don’t- you don’t really feel like-” he lamely motions between the both of them. “We don’t really have anything-”

“Yes!”

“It’s this room eh?” Crowley looks around, horrified to find a faint lacey pattern on the already deplorable wallpaper. “This is-”

“A mistake!” Aziraphale, who had trouble admitting it earlier, insists earnestly. “This whole,” he waves his fork around to encompass their room, “this whole thing, I mean.”

“A huge mistake for which you will never be forgiven,” Crowley goes on.

Aziraphale scowls. “Oh, well, that’s a bit too much-”

“You owe me one, angel,” Crowley says relaxing into the pillows. They may look atrocious, but they are deliciously soft. 

“Really now-”

“You _owe_ me.” Crowley grins. “Say it.” Aziraphale purses his lips. “Come on, say it. For Brussels and Barcelona and Amsterdam and Moscow-”

“Fine! Fine.” Aziraphale sighs heavily. “I owe you one.”

“Was that so difficult to say?”

“You are _horrible_ ,” Aziraphale says with utmost sincerity.

“Oh, cheers!” His laughter dies down. “No need to look so contrite, angel. You know I wouldn’t cash it in if, say, we’re in a dire situation, and the choice were to be between you and me.”

“I’d choose you,” Aziraphale blurts out.

“Oh.” Crowley feels his cheeks warm, and he looks away, rubbing at his neck. “Well that’s- that’s awfully nice of you.”

“Would you-” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“Nah,” Crowley says, arranging his arms to his sides to seem comfortable. “I know how you’re like.”

“I don’t want to-” he pauses, hesitates. “I know you’re still recovering from Bobeth.”

“It’s just Bob,” Crowley corrects him, yet again.

“And I realise I’ve been… too forward with my means.”

“Angel…”

“The Google-”

That surprises a laugh out of Crowley. “Admitting it, eh?”

“The Google,” Aziraphale continues with only an annoyed glare his way, “insists that one must talk about… whatever unresolved feelings they may have.”

Crowley tenses. “What do you mean?”

“Between you and Bobathan. It says that, well, feelings can get backed up, so to speak-” Crowley snickers, “-oh, shut it. Crowley, I’m trying to be- to be _sincere_ here.”

“You don’t have to be,” Crowley says. Aziraphale fixes him with a moue of disappointment. “Just. _Feelings_. Ngmeh.”

“We talk about feelings!”

Crowley, who hasn’t at all confessed any of his to his lovely friend says, “We really don’t, angel.”

“In any case. We don’t have to talk about him, right now,” Aziraphale says gently. “But, well, I want you to know: I’m here to- to listen.”

Crowley softens at the face of Aziraphale’s absolute sweetness and generosity. “I know.”

Aziraphale smiles, ducking his head as a light blush suffuses his face. “You’ve got a friend in me, Crowley.”

“Yeah.” He rubs at his neck again. “You hadn’t really given me a choice.”

“I’m glad.”

Crowley clears his throat. “So,” he gestures to Aziraphale’s pasta. “You gonna finish that?”

Aziraphale hunches over the takeaway carton, arms wrapped around it protectively. “I believe that isn’t any of your concern.”

Crowley leans closer still. “You’ve been nursing it for quite awhile now,” he points out.

“I’m _savouring_ it,” Aziraphale says, not without that familiar hint of snobbery. 

“Unlike me and my bolognese?” 

“You know, Crowley, you would appreciate food more if you would just slow down and take the flavours in,” Aziraphale lectures, not for the first or, Crowley knows, the last time. He’s got a point though -- Crowley has mastered the art of inhaling food fast. 

“I’ve enough appreciation for my wine, angel,” he replies, scooting closer.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “ _Everyone_ has enough appreciation for their wine-” Quick as a snake, Crowley’s hand darts down, steals a piece of shrimp from Aziraphale’s takeaway, and pops it into his mouth. Aziraphale squeaks in surprise. “You- you!”

“Shhh, angel, I’m _savouring_ it,” Crowley says cheekily.

With a fierce pout Aziraphale stands up, takes his scampi, and walks, dignified, to the bathroom. Making sure Crowley’s watching, he closes the door firmly, locking it with a _snick_. 

“Are you- are you _eating_ in the loo?” When no answer is forthcoming, he guffaws, yelling, “Well, enjoy your dinner!”

A very quiet _thank you_ floats from the door, and Crowley laughs loudly again, clutching at his sides when they begin to hurt. Well, he supposes, with no Aziraphale around, he can go on and pick the _better_ side (clearly, the one further from the windows. Wouldn’t want the sun in his eyes in the morning). Stealing a pillow from Aziraphale’s stack, he fixes it under his. His neck is gonna hurt like a _bitch_ in the morning, but there’s the added satisfaction of Aziraphale having discovered his stack being a pillow less when he emerges.

Smirking widely, Crowley spreads out across the bed. He can wait Aziraphale out.

\---

He feels long fingers run through his hair and curls toward the sensation, only to send them retreating. 

Crowley tries to cling futilely to the thin threads of his dream, and he’s disappointed when he slips away to full consciousness. He stretches, startled when his hands hit something soft. He opens his eyes to Aziraphale in his striped grandpa pajamas with a shoulder nightlight lit (that he’d adopted from some American copper program) reading a thick book. The utter nerd. The utter _adorable_ nerd. Smiling fondly at him, Crowley asks, “What time is it?”

Aziraphale flips a page before he reflects Crowley’s smile. “Hardly midnight. You barely took a nap.” He pauses. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah.” He flips to his side. “You can carry on reading, angel.”

“Oh, good.”

Counting his pillows, Crowley’s annoyed that Aziraphale managed to sneak the one Crowley’d stolen off his pile. And an extra one as well, that vindictive bastard. “Mmm, I had a wonderful dream,” he murmurs, realising he’s far too sleepy to try to foil another one of his friend’s plans.

“Is that so?”

“Someone was stroking my hair,” he says dreamily, “felt nice.”

“Oh.” Another hasty page flip. “Is that- did that- do you know who it was? Petting you.”

Crowley shrugs. “Could be anyone.”

“I see.” Aziraphale shifts, fussing with his reading light.

A thought crosses Crowley’s mind, but he banishes it just as quickly. “Is this a ploy to get me to talk about Bob again?”

“No, no, dear friend, absolutely not,” Aziraphale protests. “I’m just… curious.”

“Well, t’wasn’t,” Crowley is absolutely certain. He knows who it can be, who he really wants it to be. He yawns. “Him, I mean.”

Aziraphale smiles at him again. “Eager to go back to your dream?” Crowley hums, nuzzling further into his pillow. 

“Angel?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can you-” No, he can’t ask, can’t be too forward. “Nevermind.”

Aziraphale chuckles, low and sweet. “Good night, dear friend.”

“Good night, angel.”

\--

It is rare indeed when Crowley wakes up early in the morning, and even rarer still when he wakes up earlier than Aziraphale. It’s strange, watching his friend sleep like this.

Crowley loves his sleep, grabbing every opportunity to do so, but Aziraphale rarely ever does. He knows the blond has demons (metaphorical, not literal, although there was that one in Kansas once…) -- ones that keep him awake half the night and grant him nightmares when he _does_ fall asleep. _It’s like a superpower_ , Aziraphale had told him on a tired night, _I can’t be caught off-guard when I can’t sleep_. Which is… ironic since Aziraphale is easily distracted by books and charming tartan things.

Really, despite having worked together for almost a decade, Crowley can count the number of times he’s watched his friend fall into a comfortable sleep.The more common sort of sleeps he’s seen, well, they don’t count, for obvious reasons; they’re the ones Crowley’d rather forget -- the ones where Aziraphale had lain motionless with blue lips and just the faintest breaths, where Crowley had just sat there, useless, his head in his hands as he pleaded and bargained with an absent god, and promised himself he would tell Aziraphale everything if he survived.

He’s quite an accomplished liar, Crowley.

Aziraphale is curved to him, face relaxed in sleep. The eternal worry lines and creases ‘round his forehead and eyebrows are smooth, and his shoulders are loose. He hasn’t got lashes as dark as Crowley’s, but the fan of them still lends shadows to his skin, sweet and innocent. The cool morning sun lights him from behind and sets fire to his already brilliant blonde hair. Crowley’s never seen anything so lovely.

He wants to touch him, wants to run his knuckles down that soft face. He wonders what it would feel like to just take Aziraphale’s hand, bring it to his lips to kiss. 

Ugh, but that would be creepy, wouldn’t it?

A frown edges over Aziraphale’s brows and his soft snores quiet into a sigh. Hastily, Crowley, backs away, sitting himself up by his elbows. Beside him, Aziraphale blinks his eyes open, squinting at Crowley sleepily. Aziraphale's eyes are just starting to give, Crowley knows, and he’s taken to occasionally wearing reading glasses. He’s stubborn though, and he very rarely wears them when Crowley’s around. Much to the redhead’s disappointment.

“Good morning, my dear,” Aziraphale says, voice warm.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re affectionate today, aren’t we?”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale says, blinking at him sleepily. “S’too early.”

“Too early?”

Aziraphale buries his face into his pillow, mumbling something unintelligible, and Crowley feels his heart swells ten sizes in fondness. Before he can stop it, his hand comes up to rest in Aziraphale’s hair, spreading between his curls. Crowley freezes. He snatches his hand back, leaping off the frilly bed. “Sorry, Aziraphale, I-”

Aziraphale snores in reply, and Crowley lets out a sigh of relief. He’s a creep, but Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that. He ducks into the bathroom, hoping a quick shower will help him come to his senses.

\---

It’s even colder today than it was the day before. Crowley shivers in his jacket. Seaside towns, he finds, already have the ability to carry the cold -- here in a hidden grotto, the cold seeps through his jacket and shivers into his skin. He sighs, annoyed. 

“ _We need the murder weapon, Crowley_ ,” he murmurs miserably, mimicking Aziraphale’s posh accent. “ _Trace it back to the killer, Crowley, like we always have_. Why don’t you talk to her then?” He blows at the seashell again. Aziraphale and he really don’t have any cause to trust her but she-

He feels it, something not unlike a flash of cool water against his skin, a weird pull in his stomach that tells him there’s something not quite right.

There’s a great splash, and when he turns there’s a siren seated across him in the grotto, her generous figure lounged casually over large, sharp rocks. Her long, curly hair is blonde today, a detail he most definitely resents, although she kept her skin a white freckled blue. She’s a beautiful creature, this one.

“Where’s the other one?” she asks in lieu of a greeting, craning her neck to try and see over his shoulder. He scoffs. As if he could hide Aziraphale behind him.

Crowley shrugs. “Out questioning civvies or summat.”

“Isn’t that what you usually do?”

“I know, that’s what I said!” To which Aziraphale had replied with large, sad cow eyes, _but she likes you better_. 

She most definitely does not. “Aww, but I miss him. Tell him that, will you? I miss him and his bright hair. Look, I even wore mine like his.” She runs webbed hands through her hair, messy curls even lovelier as the sun hits them. 

“It’s pretty,” Crowley agrees.

“Thank you, I know you think so,” she says with a sly little smile.

His face warms fiercely. “Shut up.” She snickers. “ _Anyhow_. We- your _Bright Hair_ has a favour to ask.”

“Why isn’t he here to ask me then?”

“He’s busy.” Aziraphale probably finds her as irritating as Crowley does. Really, it’s a wonder she’s managed to ensnare men and women before Aziraphale and he had come along to- well, not stop her, exactly, since that’s the nature of things. Help her pick her victims more discernibly?

She crosses her arms. “So am I!”

“Siren-”

“It’s Roxxy now, actually,” she says, smug.

“Roxxy?”

“Yeah! What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing! Nothing. Why Roxxy?”

“Heard it in a song once - this girl I tempted sang it for me. Called me her Roxanne. I think it sounds pretty,” she says. “Doesn’t it sound pretty?”

“I guess?”

“Well it’s a sight better than _Crawly_ ,” she pouts.

“That’s not my name.”

“Yellow Eyes.”

“Don’t.” He fixes his glasses on his nose again, making sure they haven’t slid down. He’s always been a bit insecure of his eyes.

“Whatever.”

Crowley sighs tiredly. “Look,” he opens his satchel, taking bags and bags of Walkers and Hula Hoops out, “I come bearing gifts.”

“Ohhh!” Her large all-white eyes widen, finned arms reaching for the crisps, “yes, please-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, “a favour. In exchange for these crisps.”

She considers this, head tilted in such a familiar angle that Crowley’s heart hurts. “Alright,” she replies at last.

“I dunno how you could fancy these when you have the whole ocean to eat,” he tells her as she snatches them from his loose grasp lightning fast when he draws close enough, hugging them to her chest. “Ugh, I’m starting to sound like Aziraphale, forgive me.”

“They’re like dried fish skins,” she tells him, delighted, “but scrummier. Bright Hair tried fish skins once and he quite liked it!”

“Of course he would.” He can just imagine Aziraphale, tan trousers rolled up to his knees, bonding with this irritating siren over strange fishy delicacies. “Now, the favour.”

“These aren’t enough.”

“Fine!” He runs a hand through his hair frustratedly. “Fine. You’ll get more after you’ve finished the task.”

“I’ll consider it.” She waves a hand at his scowl. “Well, go on then.”

He sits down next to her, elbows on his knees. “A man was killed here some days ago. He was stabbed before he was pushed off the cliffs.”

“Quite common,” she says, ripping through a Walkers bag. She pops a crisp into her mouth.

“His wound was still burning,” he continues, “even after being subdued in water for days.”

She perks up. “Ooo! Sounds like magic!”

“We think it is,” Crowley says. “We’d like you to help us look for the murder weapon.”

She chews on her crisps thoughtfully. “Tricky,” she mutters, “tricky, tricky, tricky.”

“What is?”

“This.” She tilts her head again. “A unique weapon hidden in a small town like this? With tourists strewn around the waters?”

“You’d have to sneak around.”

“Are you _sure_ I can’t just beguile humans to look for it for me?” she asks with a hopeful grin, sharp teeth on full display. As beautiful as she is, Crowley sometimes forgets that she is also a very terrifying and dangerous creature.

“No,” he says firmly. “And I’m sure Aziraphale wouldn’t like that.”

“Piss and shit.”

“What- wassat?”

“Nothing,” she sings out. “Pity I can’t tempt _you_. It’d be easier to deny any of my involvement with you to do my bidding.”

“No.” 

“Perhaps this would be easier.” With a mischievous grin, she shortens her hair, keeping it a familiar riotous mop of curls. “You like it?”

“Stop.”

Her skin turns pale, more human toned, shimmery purple-green tail separating into plump legs. “And now?”

“Seriously, stop,” he says, looking away. He hates just how easily she can get under his skin. “This is disrespectful, Roxxy.”

“Aww, you’re no fun.” When he looks back to her, she’s turned back into her blue skin and tail, although her hair remains short. “Are you certain the other one can’t make it here?” she asks. “I have so much to tell him!”

“Look-” He takes deep breaths, trying to relax his shoulders. “Aziraphale has so much to do right now, I’m sure he’ll make time for you next time ‘round.”

“I suppose…” she lays down over the rocks, hair splayed out like a white radiant halo. “We… hadn’t parted on good terms.”

“Oh?”

She nods sadly. “I think I pushed too hard,” she says. “He’s a skittish little creature, in’t he? One moment he’s sat there, happily sharing some of my seaweed, the next he’s packing up his things, _tatty bye_ , and off he’s gone. Just because I-” she pauses, frowns. Turning to Crowley, she asks, “Heard Boberick dumped you. No offense, but you don’t deserve him.”

That should hurt, but it was really the most amicable break-up Crowley’s gone through. He and Bob knew there was no way they were going to last together -- it was fun, but there- well. There weren’t a lot of feelings there, not from Bob and certainly not from Crowley. “None taken.”

She fixes him with a frown. “Everyone deserves someone who loves them,” she tells him. “Have you told him?”

“Told who?” he says, trying to play ignorant.

“Bright Hair. Aziraphale,” she corrects himself. “Told him that the only reason you can’t hear my song is because-”

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “I can’t- I can’t listen to your wheedling right now, siren.”

“You can never seem to,” she points out with a shrug. “Both of you, the stubborn lot. If only you’d-” she pauses thoughtfully. “A favour for a favour.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I’ll consider it,” he echoes her. 

“I’ll look for the- the burning thing, whatever it is, free of charge!” she says. “But you, you have to ask him how _he_ survived my song.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “He was wearing earplugs, siren.”

She grins, sly and smug. “That’s what he wants you to think.” 

\---

“I’ve good news and bad news,” Aziraphale says as soon as Crowley’s sat on the bar stool next to him. Already, there are two full glasses of wine ready for them.

“What?” he asks, staring at Aziraphale’s hand pushing a glass to him. It sticks a bit against the odd sticky residue left on the wooden surface and Crowley resolves never to rest an arm, or really, any part of his anatomy on it. 

Roxxy’s question burns at the tip of his tongue but he- 

He’s reluctant to find the answer for himself. This little kernel of hope is killing him, he knows, but if it were just that -- just something without the truth to realise it -- that would burn him from the inside.

“Wine in the middle of the day, eh?” Crowley asks lightly. “Must be a hell of a good news.”

“Well, erm,” Aziraphale holds a hand up, twisting it side to side, _not really_.

Crowley frowns. “Angel-”

“Which one do you want first?” Aziraphale interrupts, voice lifting at the end.

Crowley shrugs, “Doesn’t matter, you’ll tell me either way.” Aziraphale pouts. “Come on, angel, just spill.”

“Was Roxanne being difficult?”

“Roxxy,” Crowley corrects him, “and yes. She misses you. Told me you just upped and left her last time you guys- _by the way_. I didn’t know you’ve got some sort of picnic arrangement with her! Angel, what else have you been hiding?”

Aziraphale fidgets with his drink, twisting the stem of the glass between his thumb and index finger. “I can have other friends, you know,” he settles on defensively. “Did she- did she tell you why?”

“No, ‘course not, that irritating creature,” he takes a long swig from his wine. Not bad for a little pub in a little town. “Took me long enough to get her to consider our proposal as it is.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale sits up. “Did she agree to it?”

“Yep. Easily, after I gave her crisps- which, by the way, genius idea, angel.” Aziraphale preens. Well, Crowley thinks, his friend doesn’t need to know the other half of _that_ arrangement. “Now, tell me what you’ve got.”

“Alright, erm.” The bartender with hair paler than Aziraphale’s slams two filthy menus in front of them, fixing them with a blank stare, before bustling off to the other end of the bar. “Perhaps we should order-”

“Angel.”

“Yes, alright.” Aziraphale claps his hands over his knees. “Good news! I know who the victim is.”

“Very good!” 

“Luke Masters,” Aziraphale continues. “He was considerably wealthy, owned a lot of land and properties in this town, including this pub, the local clinic, our hotel, and a few residential homes as well.” Leaning close to Crowley, he says, “He was also quite unpopular. Of the people I’ve questioned, _town bully_ was tossed around quite a bit. It’d be difficult to look for a proper motive when, well. Tadfield loathes him.”

“Huh,” Crowley says. “ _Everyone_ has a motive.” Aziraphale nods. “Is this your bad news?”

Aziraphale fusses with the menus, fiddling with the creases. “You have to understand,” he says, voice small, “I’m not good at all with- well, I’m not as good as you at handling people. I don’t know how you can just _talk_ to them without the nerves coming in.”

“I don’t know how you can stand Roxxy, but here we are,” Crowley quips.

Aziraphale smiles. “She can be difficult,” he agrees.

Crowley laughs. “Understatement.”

“So, bad news.” Aziraphale’s shoulders hunch as his eyes dart around. “We’ve been found out.”


	3. DC Newt Pulsifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Partners!” Aziraphale cries with a hand over Crowley’s, fake enthusiasm clear in his voice. “We’re partners in the- in the-” He looks over to Crowley helplessly, large eyes urging him to do something, say something.
> 
> “In the… eyes of the law!” Crowley says triumphantly. “Yes, erm. We’re-” He flips his hand so it fits neatly in Aziraphale’s palm, shaking it lamely, “we’re together. Yayyy.” 
> 
> \-- in which they get discovered and Crowley hatches a ridiculous plan. Thankfully, it only plays into his little crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks misseditallagain!

“What do you mean _we’ve been found out_ ,” Crowley hisses as he peers at the pub from behind a shoulder, searching for prying eyes. He hunches lower. Ugh, he hates it when Aziraphale picks their seats -- they’re always seated with their backs to the door. No, Crowley needs to be always ready, needs to know who comes in and why. “Aziraphale, what did you do?”

“Crowley, it’s alright-”

“No, it is very much _not_ alright!” Crowley whisper-yells. “Do you realise what this means?” Head office does not take it lightly when witchfinders get found out -- they fire witchfinders, or worse, reassign them to a different partner whose sharp banter and kindness won’t lead to years of friendship and hopeless pining.

Aziraphale sighs, “They’re not going to reassign us, Crowley.”

“Get out of my head!” Crowley shrieks loudly. A few heads turn their way, and he sinks lower into his jacket. “How- how could you _possibly_ know that they won’t?” Crowley asks, panicked. “You know how they are!”

“They won’t because-”

“Not even _Gabriel_ can keep them from reassigning us. Cousin or not, he’s very by the book!” Crowley makes a face. “What _on Earth_ did you do, angel? Seriously, it’s only been _three hours_ , how can you possibly-”

“Four.”

The hand Crowley has been gesturing about falls smack onto the sticky bar. “I beg your pardon?”

Aziraphale hunches his shoulders. “It’s been- well, we left the hotel at nine, you see, had a bit of breakfast at the cafe-”

“Aziraphale, I swear to god if you don’t stop being difficult-”

“I’m not!” Aziraphale exclaims, both hands up. At Crowley’s gaping face, he sighs heavily, fussing with his coat. “I’m sorry, I’m not being difficult. It’s just been a trying day.”

Crowley sighs as well. “Tell me.”

“I’m usually more observant. You know this, Crowley. But I- despite my best efforts, I seem to still have a bit of trouble talking to people with some confidence. And I thought, oh, maybe if I put my full attention to it, go through my checklist as carefully and thoroughly as possible, perhaps I could get through this day, get the information you and I need, and meet you here for a spot of lunch.”

“Clearly the most important part,” Crowley says, suddenly feeling a bit guilty at how quickly he’d gone off on Aziraphale.

“Yes, thank you. Anyway, I’ve left my cards in the hotel, so I thought I’d pop on over, grab them, and pay the bill before you get here.”

“You don’t have to, angel.”

“Yes, but Crowley, you don’t always have to either.”

“I know but-” his arm unsticks itself with an ugly _shluck_ as he tries to ruffle his hair. Ugh. “I like treating you,” he continues. 

Aziraphale flushes, and he looks away, fiddling with the stem of his wineglass. “Anyway. So I went in, crossed the lobby, and the Dowlings were there talking to a young man. Did you know they were staying at our hotel as well?” Crowley shrugs. He had an inkling -- Tadfield isn’t large enough for more than one, really. “They waved me over, and of course I just can’t refuse them, can I? That would be impolite. When I got there, Mr. Dowling was well cross: _Mr. Fell, surely you’ve told your colleague we’ve talked to you already, my wife can’t possibly relive this trauma again_.”

“That’s not what he said.”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “No, he was- he was very rude.”

“Ah.”

“And, well, you know me. I started sputtering something about- about you and I, and this young man started telling me about how he found it interesting -- that’s the word he used, Crowley, _interesting_ \-- that they found a body right about when we got here, and I panicked and I-”

“Err, hello?” A young, bespectacled man sits next to Aziraphale, leaning over to wave at both of them. He folds his sopping wet trenchcoat, placing it on the bar carefully. “Mr. Meddows? It’s me, Newton Pulsifer. Sorry for my tardiness and the-” he gestures at his coat, “I stopped by the shore for something.” He frowns when Aziraphale continues to fret, staring wide-eyed between Crowley and the newcomer. “You asked me out for a- erm,” he blushes, “a drink?”

“A _what_?!” Crowley shrieks as Aziraphale protests loudly, “No, no! No, no, no, not _that_ sort of drink, no.”

Crowley raises an incredulous eyebrow. “The lady doth protest a little too much, don’t you think?” To the young man, he says, “It’s a bit insulting.”

He laughs, rubbing his neck shyly. Water drips from his dark hair, and he swipes it away quickly, clearly embarrassed. “Ah, no, erm, actually I’m quite glad this isn’t a, you know.” He smiles at them helplessly. “Saves me the bother of actually telling you I’m not- erm. Interested?”

“So am I!” Aziraphale says earnestly. “ _Not_ interested, I mean.” Crowley rolls his eyes heavenward. Lord help him, they’re as awkward as each other. Aziraphale gestures at Crowley. “This is my- erm. Deacon.”

“Ah, yes, the one who talked to Mrs. Dowling?”

Crowley drains his glass, sliding it aside as he leans to see the other man. “So you,” he frowns trying to remember the quick introduction, “Newt. You know?”

Newt glances at him, and then at Aziraphale, and then back again. “I-it’s Newton, actually.”

Crowley purses his lips. “Nah.”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says.

“So you know we’re, you know.” Crowley flicks a hand between him and Aziraphale. At Newt’s puzzled face, he hisses, “we’re wi-”

“Partners!” Aziraphale interrupts with a hand over Crowley’s, fake enthusiasm clear in his voice. “We’re partners in the- in the-” He looks over to Crowley helplessly, large eyes urging him to do something, say something.

“In the… eyes of the law!” Crowley says triumphantly. His pride deflates when Aziraphale only gapes at him. Oh lord, in for a penny, in for a good pounding, as Gabriel likes to say. Seriously, whoever gave him that promotion to Witchfinder Chief Inspector needs to be shot. “Yes, erm. We’re-” He flips his hand so it fits neatly in Aziraphale’s palm, shaking it lamely, “we’re together. Yayyy.” 

“Oh!” Newt’s dark eyes light up. “That explains it!”

“Explains what, exactly?” Aziraphale asks, eyes carefully avoiding Crowley. There’s a blush on his cheeks and neck, and Crowley would be lying if he doesn’t find it fetching (he so dearly hopes it’s not an angry flush though. That would be sad, that Aziraphale finds them being married quite deplorable).

“Your name.” Newt beams. “Mr. Dowling called you Mr. Fell. I wondered about that, you know, a man with two names. Sounded real dodgy. But now-” he gestures between the both of them, “ _now_ it makes sense!”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Aziraphale says in tight little staccatos, voice almost in the pitch it gets when he’s most definitely panicking. “I mean yes, we’re partners, but not in _that_ way we’re- we’re _partners_ partners, as in-”

“Just married,” Crowley grits out between his clenched teeth, sending Aziraphale a meaningful look. Aziraphale is clever -- probably more clever than half of head office combined -- but he can also be so ridiculously careless. “My dear- my darling sweetums,” Aziraphale scowls at him, “is a forgetful little… honey sweet. Heart. Why, I always tell him, _I told him_ -” he glances at Aziraphale meaningfully, “he should probably start using our alias- our _married names_ when we’re out and about, hmm?”

“This is new, you see,” Aziraphale says, squeezing Crowley’s hand hard in warning. Oh, yes, _that_ was an angry flush. “Hardly been married. Really, no paperwork yet!”

“Ah, yes. Honeymoon?” Newt asks politely.

“Pardon?”

“Miss Potts -- she owns the hotel, see. She says you’re both staying in the honeymoon suite?”

“It’s a honeymoon suite?” Crowley squeaks. 

“I’m sorry, Newton, this isn’t really,” Aziraphale cuts Crowley a nervous look, “this isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh, no bother!” Newt says cheerfully, motioning to their white-haired bartender for more wine for Crowley and Aziraphale and one for him as well. “As I said, it explains things.” He laughs. “For a moment there, I thought, well, they just got here and now they’re questioning people thoroughly. Almost as if they _know_ something.”

“Ah, were we that obvious?” Crowley glares at Aziraphale. To his credit, Aziraphale meets his glare head-on stubbornly.

“Ah, no, no, no, not at all.” Newt rests his head on his fist thoughtfully. “Actually, maybe a little bit. Mr. Meddows got a bit too specific there. Too pushy, some might say. Everyone remembers a nervous man.”

Oh. Oh no. Crowley steals a look at Aziraphale, his heart breaking a little at the downtrodden expression on the man’s face. He knows Aziraphale has been working on his anxiety, trying to push himself to be more comfortable with talking to people alone. That’s always been Crowley’s thing -- him interviewing people whilst Aziraphale goes and examines things with his brilliant, keen eyes -- but ever since the sirens, Aziraphale has been wanting to be more independent.

Not that- well it’s all quite good, really. But did he really need to be so with Crowley around?

“Still, it’s quite odd, innit?” Newt continues on, oblivious. “The both of you going ‘round questioning people. On your _holiday_ , no less.”

“That,” Crowley laughs awkwardly, “that we have a, err, a very logical and very reasonable… reason for that.”

“Ah yes! Very reasonable.” Aziraphale worries his lower lip as he stalls. “It’s clever you see, we’re actually, erm, we are-”

“Consultants!” Crowley exclaims as Aziraphale continues, “mystery enthusiasts.”

Newt’s dark eyes dart between the two of them. “Oh. Of course- yes! That makes sense!”

“Does it?” Crowley squeaks.

“Not really.”

“Well, you see,” Aziraphale begins haltingly, “We… We _were_ murder enthusiasts, but as it turns out, we’re decent at it, you know, solving murders-”

“Yeah!” Crowley is quick to jump in. “The detecting- we’re rather good at it. Detecting.”

Aziraphale nods. “We decided to set up a consulting firm. A little private eye office.”

“Brilliant!” Newt gasps. “Where is it?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange glances helplessly. “Soho?” Aziraphale says unsurely. Aww. Crowley smiles at him softly. That’s where he wants his future bookshop to be.

“Soho! In London?”

“Where else would it be?” Crowley asks sharply.

Newt holds his hands up. “Sorry, just- London! The big city itself!” He laughs, leaning closer to them. “I’ve always wanted to work in a big city. More people to help, you know? I mean Tadfield,” he sighs happily as he glances around the pub, “I’m well chuffed to be here, really, I am. Growing up in a farm, a town like this is quite glamorous. But there isn’t really anything going on, is there- well.” His face darkens. “Except for poor Mr. Masters. A shame, that.”

Oh, to be this young and starry-eyed. Crowley, at the hardy age of thirty-five, can hardly remember being such. “Sometimes,” Crowley begins, “boring is better. Boring means everyone is behaving as they should.”

“I suppose,” Newt agrees reluctantly. He sighs tiredly. “I’m sorry for being suspicious. I generally don’t want to be. My mum, she tells me, _Newton, you can’t stop being a copper around people, it’s a bit creepy_ , but I- sometimes you can’t just turn it off, you know?”

Crowley hums in agreement. “Preaching to the choir, my friend.”

“Of course, of course.” Newt nods. “Can’t ever stop working, eh? Even on your honeymoon.” Aziraphale and Crowley both laugh awkwardly. “I know you’re both probably used to the hustle and bustle of London, but nothing happens here. This murder- I don’t think anyone in the unit has even handled a proper mysterious murder like this one.”

Aziraphale suddenly sits up straight, eyes wide. Oh no, Crowley’s seen this before, seen his friend at the cusp of a brilliant, but potentially idiotic idea, and they probably need to talk about it -- try to iron out the wrinkles in the deets, as Gabriel liked to say, the big oaf -- but, no Aziraphale can be much too impulsive and- “We’ll help you,” Aziraphale offers cheerfully.

“Sorry?” Newt says as Crowley gasps, “I beg your _fucking_ pardon?”

Aziraphale squeezes the hand Crowley’s forgotten is still currently linked with the blond’s. “Well, we’re, erm, we’re detectives-”

“Consultants,” Crowley corrects him, taking his hand back. Lord, Aziraphale can be strong when he wants to be.

“Ah, yes, consultants. We’re consultants, you see, we’ve handled mysterious murders before.”

Newt, impressed, says excitedly, “I have _got_ to ask you about those someday.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, even as Crowley makes a sound of protest. How the hell are they going to explain hunting a werewolf to a civvie? “We’ve had all sorts of experience. If you’d like, we can lend you some of our expertise? We can’t really actively be on the record, since we’re not really working-”

“On a holiday,” Crowley reminds Newt _and_ Aziraphale.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and before Newt can say otherwise, he continues quickly, “Free of charge!”

“Really, angel?” Crowley tries to send him a look that most definitely means _we might need the money soon if we go on like this and head office decides to fire us after all_.

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale says, sending him a look that brokers no arguments: _no_. “Out of the goodness of our hearts. Isn’t that right? Darling.”

Crowley tries to ignore just how much that endearment warms his cheeks. “Sure… cheesecake.”

“Oh cheers!” Newt exclaims, delighted. “You have no idea- our top DI is gone half the time, and now he’s fully washed his hands of this whole thing.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Has he had a history of that sort of behaviour?”

Newt mulls this over. “What, refusing a case?” Aziraphale nods. “Well.. sort of.”

“Sort of?” Crowley echoes.

The pale bartender comes back to drop their drinks off with loud clunks, careless of the droplets of wine that join the milieu of dubious substances that already coat the bar. Newt beams at them, and tipping his glass, he says, “You alright, White?” They shrug at him. “Send Scarlette my love, will you?” They leave without a word.

“Are they… _actually_ alright?” Crowley asks.

“Yeah, they’re not the chatty sort. Actually,” a thoughtful look crosses his face, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard them talk since I got here. I mean Scarlette, their girlfriend, she says, _White says this_ or _White says that_ , so they probably talk. Probably.”

“About your DI...” Aziraphale prompts.

“Oh yes!” Newt sips his wine demurely, making a face after. “Now I remember why I never order this,” he murmurs to himself. To Aziraphale, he continues, “Shadwell, that’s his name. Grumpy bloke, but well meaning really. He recruited me here, says Tadfield can do with a lad like me.” He puffs up in pride, like a proud little peacock. “He’s a weird one, Shadwell. Too suspicious of everyone. He told me once he’s seen a barghest. What a nutter.” He shakes his head fondly. “Clever old geezer, but he’s a lot superstitious.”

“Has he told you why he doesn’t want to take this case?” Crowley prods.

“Says he’s not paid enough,” Newt replies. “Also something about copper politics.” 

Ah, yes, something Crowley and Aziraphale deal with at head office everyday. He exchanges an eye roll with Aziraphale, gratified when the blond smiles at him. It’s a small one, but it still sets Crowley’s heart aflutter. “Clever man.”

“Told you.” Newt sighs. “Could use his help now though.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind if we ask, would he?” Crowley asks, an idea forming in his head. “He likes you.”

“He does,” Newt says, the affirmation making his face brighter. 

“We could drop by his house tomorrow,” Crowley continues, “talk to him off the record. No politics, no pressure.”

“He would like that!” Newt says excitedly. “He’s always said he’d like this job more if it weren’t for the, erm,” he pauses, ducks his head, and whispers, “ _cunts_ ,” and in a normal voice he continues, “promoted on to higher places.”

Crowley laughs. “Oh I know what that’s like. Just ask him,” he points at Aziraphale with his thumb, “about his cousin.”

Aziraphale glares at him. “Must you?”

Crowley smirks at him. “Come on, angel, you know how he can be. _I’m always right_ , and on the next breath, _mistakes are a diamond dozen_ ,” he says in a terrible American accent befitting Gabriel.

Newt guffaws. “Did he really say that?”

“Mmhmm. At a company picnic, no less.”

“You really ought to stop making fun of him. He’s only doing his job,” Aziraphale says even when a smile plays at the corners of his pout.

“Ah well, I suppose it’s true what they say,” Newt says, “no one ever likes their in-laws.”

The sharp reminder of what they’re pretending to be dissipates whatever comfortable, cheerful air Crowley’s been carefully tending to since this farce was born -- Aziraphale’s smile drops, and he dips his eyes down to his wine. He moves his glass in tiny circles. “Oh, ah, yes, the difficulties of marriage,” Crowley says lamely. 

“Yeah. My mum never got on with my dad’s mum, you know, but dad said that was because they can’t agree on what _his_ favourite British bake is. Rather silly if you ask me.” 

“Very silly,” Crowley agrees. Gabriel and he had- well, they hadn't really been friends, but Gabriel’s friends with Beezle, and Beezle is quite fond of Crowley (for some odd reason, but Crowley will take it if it means he can do stupid shit with Aziraphale like educating vampires about the outdated filing system in American hospitals so they can break-in and rob them of a few bags of blood instead of draining humans of theirs). Gabriel and Crowley’s relationship is best described as a fairly amiable acquaintanceship. But then over the last few months, it’d somehow turned a lot frosty, and suddenly Gabriel’s there at every turn, glaring at him and muttering under his breath about undeserving employees. Which is a laugh because, again, whomever promoted Gabriel deserves to be shot. 

“You haven’t got any rings,” Newt points out.

_Oh shit_. Before Crowley can say anything, Aziraphale interjects, “Oh, it was a spontaneous thing. Really it should’ve been planned or, at the very least, talked about vaguely, but no. Very… very impulsive, this one.” He smiles at Crowley shark-like.

Oh. _Oh_. That sodding bastard. Crowley returns his smile with a wide grin. “If given the time, really, we could’ve had something better. But it’s not like you haven’t been impulsive, have you, angel? Impulsive _and_ careless. Why, I’d almost say this whole spontaneous marriage was part of your little scheme, eh?”

Aziraphale pouts, and oh, there’s that familiar twinge of guilt in Crowley’s chest again. “Me, what about you? With your- your infernal mood swings and your brooding and your- your-” Aziraphale blanches suddenly, and he pauses. Sliding his eyes away from Crowley’s, he says, “In any case. I haven’t got a scheme.”

“No one’s got a scheme!” Newt, who has until then just quietly watched like a child afraid to interrupt his parents’ arguing, exclaims, clapping his hands cheerfully.

“Yeah um,” Crowley ruffles his hair, “It is what it is, yeah? Better make the most of it?” Aziraphale is still studiously avoiding his eyes and, because as a husband Crowley thinks he’s allowed this, he rests his hand over Aziraphale’s and squeezes it in apology. 

“Hear, hear!” Newt cheers. A pretty ginger woman drops a plate of cheese-laden chips in front of them, winking at Newt outrageously before she saunters off, kissing the white-haired bartender when they pass by. “Oh cheers, Scarlette, you’re the absolute best!” He shoves the plate in the middle, offering them some. “Chips?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, slowly melting from whatever it is that brought on this strange funk. 

“Right,” Crowley motions for a waitress, “better order more, shall we? Angel, you like oysters don’t you?” he asks.

Aziraphale leans on his shoulder, following his finger as he points to the item in question. Crowley aches to sling his arm around his shoulders, maybe pull him closer for a kiss on his brow. Maybe he can, now that they’re- no, no, that’s something they best talk about. He intertwines their fingers, thumb drawing arcs. He isn’t sorry that he’d blurted out this stupid plan, but he’s sorry he's got his own selfish reasons for wanting it to work out.

Aziraphale pauses, and after a beat his fingers close over his as well. Well, Crowley thinks, that will have to do.

\---

“It’s not really that much of a suite, innit?” Crowley asks, arms akimbo as he surveys his room. It’s only got the one room, for starters, no couches to make it more comfortable for him and Aziraphale. Although, now that he knows what it’s supposed to be, the bizarrely flowery aesthetic seems to make more and more sense. “What I wouldn’t do for an extra chair or summat.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly where he’s knelt in front of the small hotel fridge, “we- I’m afraid we've got to talk.”

Crowley tenses. “Look, angel, I know that was stupid, but we’ve been undercover as stupider things, haven’t we? Remember Romania? The milkmaid and her mute brother?” Crowley had been the milkmaid, and he’d _loved_ wearing dresses everyday. Such freeing apparels, dresses. 

Aziraphale purses his lips. “I miss not having to talk.”

“I miss you not having to talk.”

“No, you don’t.”

Crowley sighs. “No, I don’t.”

“I really do have to apologise,” Aziraphale says, seemingly adamant to talk about their awkward arrangement when Crowley would rather he leave it well alone. They’ve done spontaneous roles before -- like that one stint in Hollywood where Crowley had to pretend to be a trending artist (whatever the fuck that is) while Aziraphale played his meek little assistant to lure out a skinwalker -- and they’d done them well. But this- 

Well. Crowley supposes this one is a bit different, what with him filled to the brim with feelings dangerously waiting to spill out his heart.

And said friend having absolutely none of said feelings for him, of course. 

He holds a hand up. “No need to apologise, angel, really-”

“No, it’s all my fault, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “You’re right that I’ve been careless and pushy about this whole…" He waves a hand around. "I just want to make sure I _could_ do it, talk to people alone. Handle things alone.”

Crowley frowns, puzzled. “But you don’t have to. I’m here, after all.”

Aziraphale smiles sadly. “What if you stop being here?” Crowley blinks at him, surprised at the sudden turn of their conversation. “Forgive me, I’m being maudlin.” He fusses with his collar, urging it to stand straight. “Anyway.” He claps his hands against his thighs. “Apologies, check. Erm.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a list,” Crowley groans. Aziraphale’s smile turns sheepish. “Of course, _of course_.”

“I thought of it on the way back,” Aziraphale confesses, and Crowley can’t help the soppy grin across his face. Lord, he drives him spare half the time, but damn if Aziraphale isn’t an adorable bugger.

“Secondly?” Crowley prompts. 

“Secondly, yes. I have got concerns about the arrangement.”

“Easy,” Crowley says, lounging on the bed, hands linked behind his head. “Hand-holding is fine,” _encouraged even_ , a voice in his head says, “arm slinging is like- is like a couple thing yes? Arms over each other’s shoulders.” He quite liked the idea of that, having an arm ‘round Aziraphale’s thick shoulders. Would it be too much to ask for kisses? 

“Food sharing,” Aziraphale says decidedly.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Obviously.” Aziraphale beams at him. They already share their food anyway. 

“That wasn’t what I meant when I said concerns. Although,” Aziraphale nods to himself, “yes, arrangement details, that has got to go on the list.”

“What- what sort of concerns have you got then, angel?” Oh lord, this is it, isn’t it? The Rejection of Crowley’s Romantic Feelings? He sits up, arranging his hands on his thighs to brace himself.

Aziraphale slides him a concerned and vaguely guilty look. “Well. Boberidge.”

Crowley groans long and hard. “This again?!”

“I’m serious, Crowley!”

“No.”

“My dear friend,” Aziraphale starts, crawling into the bed to settle comfortably next to him. “I know I shouldn’t push or pry, but I just thought this is starting to ease into our job. And, well, I suppose it’s time we have a talk about this-”

“What has _Bob_ got to do with our jobs?” Crowley asks, confused.

“Obviously you were thinking of him when you thought up this arrangement,” Aziraphale points out gently, “and really, I can’t fault you for that. Why, when Henry and I-” Crowley groans again, grabbing a pillow to smother himself with dramatically. He _loathes_ Henry. 

Henry and Aziraphale were dating when Crowley met him. And while Henry was- well, actually quite pleasant, there’d always been something a lot off about him, something deep inside Crowley warning him against getting closer to this genial bespectacled man. He’d blamed his little crush on his new coworker -- jealousy was a _bitch_ to deal with -- but he was proven right when Henry revealed himself a douche of the highest order. He was an emotionally abusive bastard who was also murdering people as an offering to some minor love god so he and Aziraphale could be immortal together forever. 

As Crowley’s favourite TV detective would say: cool motive, still murder. 

“When Henry and I,” Aziraphale starts again, but louder, “parted ways-" 

Crowley scoffs. They didn’t part ways as much as Aziraphale surrendered him to the regular coppers and detectives despite Crowley and Gabriel wanting him dead by their own hands instead. 

“Erm. Parted ways,” Aziraphale repeats, “I felt so lost.This was a man I loved for three bloody years, and suddenly there wasn't an _us_. It was just… me. And as horrified as I was at what had happened, at all the years of lying and gaslighting and possessiveness, I still missed… being an _us_. Being in a unit of unconditional support and comfort, knowing there’s someone there at the end of the day who thought of you as much as you thought of them. I thought I’d gone mad, missing Henry so much after all he’d done.” Aziraphale laughs self-deprecatingly. Crowley yearns to hold him close, tell him that he’s not alone, that Crowley won’t want him to be alone. 

Instead, he tosses his pillow aside and reaches over to pat his friend on the knee, retreating back like an utter coward when Aziraphale’s eyes dart to his hand. 

Crowley clears his throat. “You can’t just erase three years of love, angel,” he says, “even if he turned out to be a murderous little prick.”

“Mmm, I suppose.” Aziraphale spreads his fingers on the bedsheets, tracing the flowers in them. “I was so lonely after, Crowley. I felt like I was coming down from a high. After years of having someone, I craved having someone else to recreate everything that Henry and I had. You- you remember Crete?” Crowley feels his mouth dry. He nods. Aziraphale turns red. “I was despondent, you remember, a-and really, really drunk.”

“Sloshed like anything,” Crowley agrees. It was hilarious at first, drunk Aziraphale stumbling on his words and literary references, his cheeks a cute apple red colour. Crowley had opted to stay sober that night despite his friend trying to tempt him into drinking glass after glass of ouzo. And he was right to -- before long, fun, drunk Aziraphale had turned into affectionate but morose Aziraphale. It was a potent combination.

Aziraphale turns sad, baleful eyes at him. “I know I can’t possibly apologise enough-”

“You’ve apologised plenty, angel,” Crowley says hurriedly, “no- no need to recount the err, the events. The transpired events.”

Aziraphale’s face is positively red now. “Yes, of course I- no, wouldn’t want to relive that.” He laughs again, this time in embarrassment. “You’ve got to understand, Crowley, that night I just missed Henry so badly and I… well. You know what happened.”

It finally dawns on Crowley. “You think I blurted out that- that thing about us being married because I missed Bob,” he says, eyes wide. Aziraphale smiles sadly at him. “Oh. No, no, no, really, angel you’ve got it all wrong-”

“No need to be embarrassed, Crowley,” Aziraphale says hurriedly, hands held out placatingly. “It’s certainly not the worse we’ve done, between the two of us.” 

“Well, it’s totally not because of _Bob_ , I assure you,” Crowley says, trying to sound as assuringly as possible. “Aziraphale, I panicked, alright? It was- it was the best I could come up with at the moment.” He winces. “I- do you- are you unhappy with it? Because, we can change it, tell Newt some nonsense about, err, I don’t know, a divorce or summat. Boy’s an idiot anyway.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Newt’s not an idiot.”

“Come off it!”

“He’s a lot sharper than he lets on,” Aziraphale says. After a beat he continues on, “I’m not. Unhappy that is, with our cover. It’s just… I thought you missed Bobbly, and Crowley, I wouldn’t want to be a replacement for anyone, even if it’s just pretend.”

“You’ll never be a replacement for anyone, angel,” Crowley blurts. He slaps a hand over his mouth. His heart has never learned to keep itself contained in his throat. 

Aziraphale laughs. “Well, isn’t that flattering.”

“Shut up!” Crowley says. Running a hand through his hair he says. “Seriously though, you’re my best friend, Aziraphale. There’s… there’s never gonna be anyone else like you in my life.” And this- well, this will have to be the closest Crowley will ever be to a confession.

Aziraphale smiles, soft and sweet. “As you are to me.”

“Good, good. I-” Crowley pauses. “I would understand if you’re uncomfortable sleeping with me in the bed. I could go sleep in the tub, if you’d like?”

“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale says. “What was it you said? _Two pals being pals_? It- this is nothing.”

“Of course!” Crowley is quick to agree. “Absolutely nothing!”

Aziraphale laughs. “Now, dear fellow. Next on the list.” He leaps off the bed to rummage through the bag he’d been toting around the whole day, a ridiculous little striped backpack more suited for a jaunt around a college campus.

Crowley groans. “There’s more to the list?”

Crowley can’t see it, but he’s sure that the brief pause in Aziraphale’s rummaging constitutes an elaborate eye roll. “Have you ever had only two things in a list?” the blonde asks him.

“Yes!” Crowley exclaims. “All the time!” Aziraphale scoffs. Turning around, he brandishes a thick folder, smug smile on his adorable round face. Crowley gasps, impressed. “You’ve been busy haven’t you, angel?”

Aziraphale shakes the folder, pleased at its drunken wobble. “I had a few invisibility charms from Anathema in my bag. Thought I’d use them before they completely expire.”

“You are _brilliant_!” Crowley gushes, holding his arms out for it. Aziraphale obliges him, settling next to his lanky form so he can peer over as Crowley skims the pages. “You don’t think the station will miss them?”

“These are duplicates,” Aziraphale says, pointing at a wonky photocopied page. “It’s strange: for a high priority homicide, no one seemed especially interested in it, leaving it well alone.”

“Huh.” Crowley frowns. “No one wants it solved.” Aziraphale makes a noise of agreement. “Except for that swot Newt. Well, better for us, eh?”

Aziraphale beams. “Do you think Miss Potts would mind terribly if we were to pin these on her walls?”

“Honestly, angel,” Crowley holds up an especially graphic close up of Luke Masters’ mottled wound, “this would be a vast improvement.”

\---

This is what they know:

The last time anyone saw Luke Masters was three nights ago at The Red & Egret, the local pub closest to the coast. Several witnesses had seen him enter the pub around eight, and after a heated argument with some patrons, he’d left in a huff, and driven off somewhere in his massive truck. 

That night, his daughter Lena Masters, who had come to visit from Wales, had not heard him return home, and she noted that, although only having been in Tadfield for a week, this was out of character for him. Her father liked watching the ocean at night, but he’d always gone home before the early hours of the morning.

While it’s difficult to accurately determine the time of death when a body’s found in the ocean, it can reasonably be timed a couple hours after he left the pub, although the nature of his wound casts some doubts. The burnt cauterised flesh suggests the weapon used was heated to some degree to cause tissue damage.

Witnesses claim the wound had burned minutes after the body’s discovery.

The murder weapon still hasn’t been found.

\---

Crowley stares at the ceiling, watching lights from a lone passing car cross it in harsh yellow streaks. He remembers laying awake like this in Crete, mindful of every breath his friend had taken in the bed beside his, afraid that this would be what would break their tentative friendship.

Beside him now, Aziraphale snuffles in his sleep, his little nightlight scrunched between his pillow and shoulder. Crowley chuckles fondly, plucking it from its trap to place it on the bedside table. He freezes in the midst of taking Aziraphale’s book from his tight fingers, but with only a frown and a tiny whine, the blond turns away to burrow himself deep into his covers. Lord, Crowley thinks not for the last time, he is terribly adorable. 

He moves to tuck a pale curl behind his ear, but he pauses midway.

Aziraphale kissed him in Crete, wet and earnest. Crowley remembers freezing, hands useless against his sides, even when he’d been so lovesick and desperate and immensely hopeful. It was only when Aziraphale’d started to pull away when Crowley’d finally kissed back, a confession in his lips and in his hands, cradling his friend’s face carefully. He’d gently pushed Aziraphale away after, telling him that they’d talk in the morning when he’s sober. 

The day after though, Aziraphale had apologised so much and so miserably that it had made Crowley feel sick to his stomach. He’d taken advantage of his friend, kissed him even when he knew how lonely Aziraphale was without Henry; he’d taken whatever kernel of hope Aziraphale offered in his drunken misery.

Crowley sighs. And here he was taking advantage of his friend’s kind, pragmatic nature. He tucks that curl in anyway, taking in Aziraphale’s pleased little huff like a desperate man, before he flops back to his side away from him. He shuts his eyes firmly. 

He pretends he doesn’t wish to trace the streetlamp lights on Aziraphale’s profile.


	4. DI Shadwell and Sergeant Milk Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Standing back up, Aziraphale smooths his hands over his lapels and coat, patting at the creases on his knees. Nodding to Crowley, he says, “Shall we, dear friend?”
> 
> Crowley smiles at him widely. He loves this, this moment between them before a good run where the anticipation is almost as thrilling as the chase itself. Aziraphale beams back at him, and with a nudge against his shoulder, he takes off, Crowley hot on his heels. 
> 
> \-- in which Crowley and Aziraphale go on a nighttime chase in the forest, and discover more things about Tadfield's creatures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks misseditallagain!

“Sorry about the yelling,” Newt whispers over to them. “And the err, knife wielding. He’s not usually this err…” He trails off, eyes darting to their grumpy host. 

DI Shadwell currently bustles around the small kitchen of his mobile home, muttering to himself as he tosses cups and saucers and boxes upon boxes of tea everywhere. Despite this, his home is remarkably clean -- the small couch Aziraphale, Crowley, and Newt are sat on is free of the usual soot and grime and smells that old furniture is wont to collect. Even with the clutter thrown about, they’re all neatly arranged, as if each odd little knick knack is exactly where it should be.

“I’m pleased he recognised you at the very least,” Aziraphale says. He waves at the monstrous dog laying between the kitchen and the rest of the trailer, beaming eagerly at it. The dog only huffs once, turning away to busy itself with a worn tennis ball. Aziraphale’s smile falls.

Crowley snickers. Aziraphale adores animals, and he’s determined to make friends with every single one he’s met. Whenever they stroll through St. James, he makes it a point to stop and pet each dog they run across, and he carries a pouch of seeds and peas for the waterfowl that dwell in the park. It’s really… sort of adorable, if not for Crowley’s mild allergy to dog fur. He often comes back after their walks hacking up a storm. It’s really not as bad as it looks, but he still laps up Aziraphale’s gentle concern.

In any case: dogs, no, Crowley’s not much for them. Ducks, swans, and geese, though? Crowley would kill for those vicious buggers.

“I’m honestly surprised he did,” Newt says, shrugging at the raincoats Miss Potts was generous enough to lend them. They hadn’t anticipated the sudden heavy summer rain.

“You sure you don’t want whiskey instead?” Shadwell calls over his shoulder in his odd, vaguely Scottish accent.

Newt sits up, spine ramrod straight. “No, sir, I’m erm, still on duty.”

Shadwell scoffs. “No better time to be well sloshed.”

“Hear, hear!” Crowley cheers. “I’ll take a glass, if you don’t mind.” 

Shadwell nods at him in approval. Tilting his head to Aziraphale, he asks “And the husband?”

“I-I erm, just tea, if you don’t- if it’s no bother,” Aziraphale stammers, cheeks pink. Shadwell sighs, put out, and he ducks down again, banging cabinets as he goes in search of his good tea and whiskey.

Crowley nudges Aziraphale, smiling teasingly. “Well done.”

“Oh, shut it, you.”

Outside, rain batters the tiny mobile home, drops crossing the windows in little rivulets. The grassy cliff they're on ripples like waves, and Crowley imagines being swept away in this, floating down to a forest den. He can understand how this old curmudgeon would think them dangerous earlier -- with their dark raincoats, they probably looked like wraiths hovering over the distance, waiting to collect a soul. He shudders. 

“Nice of you to visit, lad,” Shadwell says when he limps over with a tray laden with mugs of hot water and teabags and glasses of whiskey. There is no milk or sugar on hand -- things Crowley knows Aziraphale likes in his tea -- but his friend stays silently nervous, taking his cup to warm his hands. “Not one for visitors, me. Always been Marta that people came to see, and now she’s gone-” The dog ambles over to them, slumping over the old man’s feet protectively when it’s close enough to, “-now it’s Milk Bottle, eh old man? The one people come to visit.” The dog doesn’t make a sound, content with staring at the three of them.

The dog feels odd to Crowley, but he’s always felt a bit odd around animals. He shifts uncomfortably. He thinks, maybe, he can sort of see smoke drifting lightly around it when he turns his head a certain way.

“Milk Bottle?” Aziraphale ventures, and even with the slight hesitation in his voice, Crowley knows his friend is thoroughly charmed.

“Aye, that’s his name, innit?” Shadwell reaches over to pet his dog fondly, ruffling its messy fur. “Suits him, eh? Sergeant Milk Bottle, who used to drain all my milk bottles. You wouldn’t know it, now that he’s gone and eaten me out of house and home, but I’ve never seen a skinnier dog than when I first saw this one. Poor lad, out starvin’ in the wild. Used to leave him whole meals outside, some of that milk he’s quite fond of. And now he’s decided to stay here permanently, keep an old man company.”

“You- you’re a good man,” Aziraphale says in wonder.

A pleased blush spreads on Shadwell’s face even as he says gruffly, “Nothin’ good about it. It is the right thing to do.”

“True altruism,” Crowley says. “Quite a rare thing.”

Shadwell shrugs. “Got me a companion out of it, is all I know.” He pets Milk Bottle again, sweeter and gentler this time.

“We’ve actually got an ulterior motive, sir,” Newt says hesitantly. “I-I mean, I do like visiting you, it’s just…”

Shadwell takes a thoughtful sip of his whiskey, a frown etched deep in his brows. “I had a dog once,” he says, “General Saucepan, my da called him. Great big beast of a dog. Almost as big as this one.” He nudges Milk Bottle fondly, who only leans harder on the old man’s leg. 

Newt fidgets uncomfortably. “Sir-”

“I know why you’re here, lad,” Shadwell interrupts. “Your friends have been examining me like I’m day old meat.” At the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Aziraphale blush into his tea cup. Turning to them, Shadwell asks, “What’re you then? Coppers?”

“Consultants on a holiday,” Crowley says, leaning back to rest an arm on the back of the couch. His hand brushes Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he feels the other man stiffen before Crowley draws away, his fingers curling into his palm.

Shadwell frowns even deeper. “Rogues. Coppers with no accountability.”

“If you like.” Crowley shrugs. “We’re more along the lines of… investigators without the politics. Or any of the chains that choke the law, really.”

“Politics, bah!” The old man makes a noise of disgust. “They corrupt even the best men. It’s a joke what they’ve made of the system! It’s never about helpin’ people anymore, innit, s’more like- like helpin’ people they think deserve it.”

“They?”

“Oh you know,” Shadwell says, waving his hand around. “Powerful people. _Paid_ people.”

“We haven’t got those,” Crowley says. “Paid people. We’ve only got us really.” He smiles at Aziraphale crookedly. “Murder enthusiasts.”

Aziraphale smiles back. “Murder enthusiasts.”

“They’re helping me out, DI Shadwell,” Newt says, “for free. It’s really generous of them and- god, you know I need the help.”

“They had no business giving you that case,” Shadwell tells him crossly. “Giving a rookie a homicide. No offense, lad, you’re still a bit green ‘round the ears.” Newt shrugs. To Crowley and Aziraphale, he asks, “how does this usually go? Your line of work.”

“Oh you know, you’ve got your usual suspects,” Crowleys says, “cheating spouses, rich old codgers looking for their next heir .”

“Our bread and butter, really,” Aziraphale pipes in. Crowley nods. This was all Aziraphale’s brainchild -- they spent most of the night before cooking up a suitable backstory for their little business. Where all Crowley’d done was nod and make impressed noises, Aziraphale had managed to create a name for them ( _Meddows and Meddows Investigations_ ) as well as got them a believable address in Soho. It was rather inspiring. 

“Sometimes though,” Crowley leans in.“Sometimes we get people who can’t get help from anywhere else, people who were failed by this system. We haven’t got much, by way of influence, but we’ve got our know-how and some… well, less than legal connections.” Shadwell barks a laugh at this, taking a more cheerful sip of his whiskey. “My husband and I run a small business, but for them, our doors are always open.”

“Noble cause, that,” Shadwell says, tipping his glass to them.

Crowley shrugs. “We get paid.”

“Mmm, I suppose.” 

“That brings us to this, of course.”

Shadwell scoffs. “This is hardly a case from any of your downtrodden,” he says. “You must’ve done some reading already. Masters is- _was_ a cunt.”

Newt sighs. “DI Shadwell-”

“You haven’t lived here long enough, lad,” Shadwell tells him. Shadwell sits back in his armchair, a hand dangling down to rest on Milk Bottle’s head, as if the old man draws strength from him. “When you’ve got a bully as rich and as powerful as Masters, the town can’t help but bow down to him. And when someone doesn’t -- when someone tries to stand against that tyranny, well-” Shadwell pats his leg. “I’ve the bullet to prove it, don’t I?”

“He shot you?” Newt asks incredulously.

“Aye,” Shadwell says, “almost killed me too, that nasty cunt. Not that it matters.”

“Not that- of course it matters!”

Shadwell shrugs. “He’s got his own lawyers. _Fancy_ lawyers from the city. Lawyers small-town folks like us can’t afford. Oh, we got him to do his time -- 24 hours before he’d posted bail. In the eyes of the law, he’s as innocent as a newborn babe.” He eyes the three of them carefully. “The law is what the wealthy deems it to be.”

“It’s not right,” Aziraphale says quietly, and when Crowley looks over, he sees his friend’s hands clenched into fists. He reaches over and rests a hand over one of them, smiling at Aziraphale crookedly when the other man looks up.

“No.” Shadwell pours himself another finger of whiskey. “It ain’t. We play by their rules. Lad, have you not wondered why they’ve given you, a clever but inexperienced constable, this homicide?”

Newt flushes. “W-well, I- they thought it’d be good training this, really, start with the difficult one, and the rest will be better?”

Shadwell laughs ruefully. “I’m afraid it ain’t easy as that.”

“DI Shadwell,” Crowley starts, “where were you three nights ago, from eight in the evening to seven in the morning?”

Shadwell raises bushy eyebrows, turning to Newt in surprise. The younger man only looks back confused. “I’m a suspect.”

Newt holds a hand up. “Now, hang on-” 

“You were assaulted by the victim,” Crowley points out, “and have constantly borne witness to the law’s corruption. You were a decorated constable and are now a well-respected and talented Inspector. I’d wager you could easily overpower a man like Luke Masters with just your wit and a sharp blade. 

“Now, where were you the night the victim disappeared?”

Shadwell assesses them carefully, his eyes darting between him and Aziraphale. He takes a careful draw from his drink, pausing to examine the pains of his glass as he swishes the remaining liquid around. “Three nights ago, eh?” Crowley nods. “I was outside, watching.”

“Watching what?” Aziraphale asks.

“The sky.”

“The sky?”

“I suppose you don’t get skies in the city like we do here,” Shadwell says, sitting comfortably against the back of his chair. Below him, Milk Bottle shifts, his ears perked up as if he’s listening to their conversation. “It was a clear night,” Shadwell continues, “the sort of night you get after the sky has rained itself out. Nary a cloud up there, just stars dotting the sky. Reminded me of my ma, actually. She said once that the night sky looks like a dark velvet cloak with jewels strewn about. I had,” he holds up the bottle of whiskey, “I had this with me. This, and Milk Bottle. Weren’t you, old boy? Out with me?” The dog turns from them to butt Shadwell’s leg, as if begging for a pet. The old man chuckles under his raspy breath, leaning over to pet him.

“His testimony won’t do much good as an alibi,” Crowley says, although something tells him that Shadwell isn’t lying. Aziraphale has got his books, but Crowley’s got this: a strong and very trustworthy gut instinct.

“Have you got any witnesses?” Newt asks. “Just- anyone who saw you out here.”

“I know how it works, lad,” Shadwell says. 

“Sir…”

“Won’t you just take my word for it, lad?” Shadwell asks, although he looks as if he already knows Newt’s answer. The man, Crowley thinks, is quite honourable. 

And heaps naive. He turns to tell Aziraphale this, but the blonde is only silently staring out the window.

“You know I can’t,” Newt tells the old man sadly.

Sighing, Shadwell goes on, “I promised their mums I wouldn’t tell them.” He drinks the last of his whiskey, setting his glass down on the tray. “Some kids came biking past that night. Said they wanted to set off some cheap firecrackers for their new friend and thought old Shadwell and his dog won’t mind. Milk Bottle likes those kids.”

Newt groans. “Don’t tell me-”

“Aye.”

Crowley frowns. “These kids, have you got names for us.”

“It’s the Them,” Newt says morosely. 

Shadwell laughs. “Good lads, they are. ‘Specially that Pepper. She’s got a mouth on her, but that’s not so bad on a kid, innit?” Newt nods with a sigh.

At Crowley and Aziraphale’s confused stare, Newt says, “They’re the town’s own mischievous little gang. Harmless enough but they do quite like pranking the mayor. It’s a bit of headache, honestly.”

“Can we ask them about this?” Crowley asks. He’s always quite hated talking to children; where adults are too polite to mention his strangely coloured eyes, children are quick to point them out. Not out of malice, but out of a pure curiosity that Crowley himself cannot answer. They’re yellow, yes, do they hurt, no, _why_ are they yellow, Crowley doesn’t know.

“Don’t tell their mums!” Shadwell pipes in.

Crowley sighs. “Can we ask them without telling their mums?”

Newt nods. “They’re always around town. I can flag them down easily.”

“Good.”

“These cliffs are overlooking the beach, aren’t they?” Aziraphale asks suddenly. He tilts his head to the window when they all turn to him. 

“Aye, to the beach,” Shadwell agrees. “It’s good to wake up to it in the morning.”

“And those ones?” Aziraphale points to the cliffs just beyond their view. “Do they overlook the beach as well?”

Shadwell shakes his head. “No, those fall to the ocean.”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale hums. Crowley cocks an eyebrow up, shifting to examine his friend’s face. It’s sometimes easy to forget that Aziraphale is a lot sharper than he lets on when he so often appears so soft and unassuming. “Did you notice anything strange about them that night?”

“Not really.” Shadwell’s face lights up, as if he’s suddenly remembered something. “Oh, yes. I almost missed it actually, with those cheap firecrackers the lads were lighting up. I thought it was strange -- there we were watching the stars and the firecrackers when there was a sudden flash of light on those cliffs. It was quick, gone in a blink really, and I’d almost convinced myself it was nothing when Adam Young asked me about it. Sharp, that lad is.” He frowns. “Could be nothing; could be something.”

“I suppose that’s worth asking the kids about,” Crowley tells Newt, and the young man nods somberly. 

“Be careful, lads,” Shadwell warns, leaning close to them. “Our dog, General Saucepan. We loved him, the dear beast. We had him for so long the fur on his snout had started to grow white. I suppose, if we were smart about him back then, we would’ve seen the signs. But as it were, his madness came so suddenly like a great storm. My ma was makin’ dinner when he goes and bites her on the leg, and when my da tried to pull him off her, he turned ‘round and tried to hurt him too. We managed to distract him enough so da could duck out and grab his gun. Killed Saucepan in a shot before he could get his jaw on my younger brother.”

“That’s horrible,” Newt says.

Shadwell nods. “T’was a right mess. All’s I’m saying is, well.” He pauses, eyes resting on each of them briefly, before he leans back to pet Milk Bottle. “Sometimes,” he continues, “it’s better to kill a mad beast before it gets to you.”

There it is again, that strange inky feeling Crowley felt when he entered the mobile home. He shudders, pressing his shoulder against Aziraphale. His friend reaches over to squeeze his hand, drawing away before Crowley can squeeze back. 

“Now!” Shadwell claps his hands cheerfully. “Tell me about that bird in the hotel. Madge. Dear old Madge. Still single?”

\---

“Hello, father,” Anathema answers after the fourth ring. 

“Don’t call me that,” Crowley grouses fondly -- he’s only really got fifteen years on her. He shifts, resting an arm against his car’s opened window. Outside, Aziraphale’s still waiting in line at the chippy place, and he must’ve felt Crowley’s stare; the blonde turns to him, waving at Crowley with a cute smile in place. Crowley only hopes his answering smile isn’t too dopey.

“Whatever,” she replies, and he can hear the eyeroll in her American accent. Honestly, he didn’t save her from getting burned along with the rest of her mother’s coven for this sass. “Ant.”

“Don’t call me that either!” he squawks.

She laughs. “Oh, I’ve missed you.” He feels a sudden fierce protectiveness surge in him -- the same fierce protectiveness that made him defy head office ten years ago, even if it were in secret, to gather this tiny little girl in his arms and hide her where they couldn’t burn her like they had the other witches in the coven -- and he longs to reach over an ocean to hug her. She isn’t that small scared girl anymore, but he still sometimes imagines her so. 

“Same,” he says.

“How are things?” she asks casually. “Aziraphale still pretty and stupid?”

“He’s not stupid.”

“Eh.”

“He’s quite clever actually!”

“Yes. Clever and adorable and so amazingly oblivious.”

Crowley scowls at her, even when he knows she can’t see him through his mobile. “Maybe I’m just that good of an actor,” he says.

“You’re not.”

“Oh come on-”

“Your heart is so big all those emotions just spill out,” Anathema goes on. “It bleeds into your aura. Huge flashing lights blinking your feelings out to the world. It’s sort of embarrassing really. Abuela keeps asking when you’re getting married to this person you love so much.”

“I- what- love- w-what- Abuela doesn’t- well, she can be- not wrong, no?” Crowley splutters. 

“For the love of Hecate, Anthony, _do_ try to make sense!”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley says, glaring at his mobile.

She laughs again. “I guess I’ll have to tell Abuela again that you still haven’t told him.”

“You’ll tell her no such thing!”

“Seriously, though, Crowley. You’re in a room with him, sharing a bed _while_ faking a marriage. This is- this whole thing is ripe for a confession, no?”

Crowley sighs. “You’re too young. Entirely too young. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

“No. You just like making it more complicated than it should be.”

“Anathema-”

“Yes, yes, I won’t nag you about this anymore. I’ve filled my quota already.”

“Thank you?”

“About that flaming blade,” she pauses, and he can hear her rustle some papers around.

“Is uni not over for the year yet?” he asks. He’d cried the day she called to tell him she was accepted to her uni of choice, and he’d taken Aziraphale out to a celebratory dinner. 

“It is,” she says. “Just doing some light reading.” Her light reading is only rivalled by Aziraphale's. Really, Crowley is surrounded by complete swots. “Found quite a bit about flaming swords, but I’ve narrowed them down to some you’ll find especially interesting. Emailing them to you right about… now.” His phone pings, and when he takes it off his ear to check, there’s a notification from Anathema.

“Cliff notes me?”

“Lazy!”

“Come on, humor an old man.” Aziraphale’s still in line, and at this rate, Crowley will either go mad with hunger or boredom. 

“Fine,” she says after a long laborious sigh.

“You’re a gem, _petal_.”

“Don’t be disgusting.” There’s a rustle of papers again on the other end. “Alright. So. There’s a whole host of different mythologies from different places, but for the most part, flaming swords are mostly used to vanguard against a perceived evil. I mean there’s Surtr from Norse mythology whose sword was prophesied to bring about the end of the world, and then there’s Asaruludu from Sumerian mythology who used his sword to protect and guide.”

“Makes sense,” Crowley says, “fire lights our way, but also causes destruction in its path.”

Anathema hums in agreement. “Now, here are the more interesting bits. I know you like your angelic lore,” she snickers when Crowley groans. He’s so sick of angels and demons, the annoying fucks. “In Genesis, there’s a cherub with a flaming sword guarding the gates of Eden after humanity was banished from it, hence, you know, the never getting back in thing.”

“A classic,” Crowley says drily.

“Yeah. And then there's Duma in Rabbinical and Islamic literature, the angel of silence and the stillness of death. There’s a long thing about them and that mess in Egypt and getting banished to Gehenna, but their sword was used to punish the wicked dead. Interesting read, this one.”

“Angels,” Crowley scoffs, “they’re all a bit mad.”

“I would personally find it hilarious if you find yourself dealing with one.” 

Crowley shudders.

“This next one I quite liked actually.”

“Oh?”

“Dyrnwyn,” Anathema says, thoroughly butchering the pronunciation. “Means White-Hilt. Welsh is a hell of a language, isn’t it?”

“Aziraphale is part Welsh.”

“Is he? Explains the name.”

Crowley laughs. “It really doesn’t.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Anathema says, a smile in her voice. “Anyway. So this sword belonged to Rhydderch Hael, one of the Three Generous Men of Britain. He’d give his sword to anyone who wanted it, but his generosity has a caveat: when someone draws it for an unworthy purpose, it would burn them, but if a- well it says worthy or well-born, classist that -- if someone _worthy_ wields it, it would blaze with fire _for_ the wielder.”

“Oh, that’s-” He feels it again, that inky smoke crawling up and over his arms. He looks up, freezing when he spots it. There’s a great figure watching him from across his car, like a big dark dog well hidden in the trees. Tendrils of smoke drift to the sky from its limbs and its back, huge swathes of it waving around delicately like underwater seaweed. A sudden wave of- of something not unlike darkness assails his nostrils and he doubles over, retching over this strange, foreign smell.

“Anthony!” Anathema is yelling through his mobile. “Anthony, are you okay? Anthony?”

He hacks up, trying to get his bearings together. “Sorry, Anathema, got to go. I’ve a barghest to deal with,” he says, voice hoarse. 

“Anthony, don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll be fine.” He reaches over the passenger’s to take a few of his silver knives out, tucking them hurriedly under his coat. He’s got a few packets of salt, and those he places deep in his pockets. “Talk to you later.”

Anathema sighs heavily. “Take Aziraphale with you at least.”

“Always.” With that, he severs their connection, tucking his phone away. He stumbles out of the car clumsily, righting himself with a hand on the door. His head hurts something fierce.

_Steady, child_ , he feels rather than hears, and he jolts up, eyes wide as the barghest only stares back.

“What-” he licks his lips. “What on Earth?”

There’s a long pause, and then the barghest tilts its head at him. _You can hear me_ _in this form_ , it says, _how curious you are_.

“What are you going on-”

“Sorry, Crowley,” a soft voice says behind him, and when he turns, it’s only Aziraphale peering worriedly in the paper bag in his arms. “I’m afraid they haven’t got any lemons left for us. Just some tartar sauce, which smells scrummy honestly, but I-” he looks up, and there must’ve been something in his face -- Aziraphale frowns, and if it weren’t for the food, Crowley recognises his alert stance for what it is. “There’s something wrong.”

Crowley nods, gesturing wordlessly at the edge of the woods where the barghest continues to watch them. It bows down on its haunches, crouching low like a dog begging to play, and Crowley feels it say, _Another one. I like this one._

“Angel,” Crowley says in a whisper, “can you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Aziraphale asks. He’s already taking salt packets from the brown bag, slipping them into the pockets of his coat. 

“It’s talk- well not talk, exactly but-” It’s a rhythm, he thinks, something that matches words, but isn’t quite like them. Aziraphale shakes his head. 

_How curious_ , the creature repeats. It gets up, tilting its head. _Follow me_. And with that, it bounds away, deeper into the thicket. 

“We’ve got to follow it,” Crowley says, testing his balance. His head doesn’t quite hurt as much anymore, the pain more of a light thrum now, and he seemed to have gotten the hang of standing up unaided again. 

“Wait, Crowley.” Aziraphale jostles the bag in his arms when Crowley looks back to him. 

“Just dump it in the car, angel, seriously!”

“Right, yes. So. This is for later?”

Crowley swears he felt his eyebrow twitch. “Yes,” he says, drawing the syllable out, “for later. Not now when we’re going after a sodding barghest!”

Aziraphale frowns. “It’s just that, well, we wouldn’t want it to be terribly cold when we-”

“Honestly, Aziraphale, priorities!”

Aziraphale pouts at him, even as he’s arranging his precious cargo carefully on the driver’s seat. True to form, he places paper napkins under it, mindful of where its grease might leak. Crowley melts from his earlier irritation -- he’s weak to people who care for his car as much as he does. Standing back up, Aziraphale smooths his hands over his lapels and coat, patting at the creases on his knees. Nodding to Crowley, he says, “Shall we, dear friend?”

Crowley smiles at him widely. He loves this, this moment between them before a good run where the anticipation is almost as thrilling as the chase itself. Aziraphale beams back at him, and with a nudge against his shoulder, he takes off, Crowley hot on his heels. 

This close to the edges, the vegetation isn't thick yet -- they’re sparse with thin leaves and even thinner branches that they swat as they rush through. The moon shines clear through the canopy above them, and Crowley almost feels watched, as if it’s a spotlight following their every move. The thought that this forest can get deeper and dense enough to block the moon out strangely comforts him somewhat.

It’s only when he thinks they’ve probably lost it when they spot it again -- the barghest is peering at them over a massive shoulder, the smoke surrounding him even thicker in the darkness. A whispery _follow_ drifts over to Crowley, and the creature leaps away again. 

“It was waiting for us,” Aziraphale gasps beside him, stumbling into a momentary stop. His cheeks are ruddy and his breaths are shallower than they should be, but excitement is shimmering in his eyes. He doesn’t like running, Crowley knows, but Aziraphale revels in a good chase like Crowley does. “Do you suppose it’s a trap?”

Crowley shakes his head, “No.” He doesn’t know how, but he’s certain of this. Still, he slips a hand to where he’s hidden a silver knife. Can’t be too careful. 

They take off again, this time slower and with much more care. The woods are getting thicker around them. It feels smothering, this darkness: the moon is barely visible now, its light glinting through the narrow spaces between leaves and branches like stars in an especially dark night. There are none of the cheerful sounds of the morning -- the birds are silent and even the calm songs of nighttime insects sound distant. The rustles they make as they pass through are eerily muted. 

It’s easier to lose themselves here, Crowley thinks, easier to lose each other. Before he can stop himself, he reaches over and tugs at Aziraphale’s sleeve. The other man nods, allowing Crowley to wrap a hand around his wrist. 

They only see the barghest once more -- on a branch, watching them -- before they both stumble into a wide clearing. The moon almost seems too bright as it shone down, illuminating the thick thatch of grass and a spiral of stones. It’s bare of trees and roots here, and after the run in the forest, Crowley feels exposed and known.

He very reluctantly lets Aziraphale’s wrist go, opting to ready himself. Beside him, his friend takes on a stance as well, alert blue eyes surveying the area.

The barghest slips itself away from the shadows across Crowley and Aziraphale, padding to the stones, just short of the centre of the spiral. It’s quite a beautiful creature: standing taller than any canine Crowley’s ever seen with a dark coat of wispy fur intertwined with what looks like dark moss and weed flowers, smoke drifting gently to the moonlight. It looks very much the part of an ancient creature, older than any human being or any town, with the history of a civilization behind it. 

Aziraphale tenses beside him and Crowley longs to reach for his hand again. Instead, he steps in front of him, raising an eyebrow to the barghest. He feels something not unlike amusement from it.

_I do not wish you harm_ , it says, sitting back on its haunches.

“You wanted us to follow you,” Crowley says. “Well?”

It tilts its head. _I am impressed you have,_ it says after a long pause. _I have something for you_.

Crowley frowns. “I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest what you could possibly have for us.”

“You’re talking to it?” Aziraphale asks in a whisper. Crowley turns to him, startled. He’s forgotten Aziraphale can’t hear it.

“Yeah, it- it’s got something for us, it says,” Crowley replies. 

_Strange humans. Sometimes one forgets you all hear and see different things_ , the barghest says.

“What- what do you mean?”

In lieu of an answer, the barghest moves to stand, but instead it elongates longer and longer, stretching into the sky as the shadows around it morph and dance. It stops decidedly on a vaguely human shape, tall with a wizened narrow face and long limbs. This close, Crowley realises that its eyes are dark slits in an entirely white iris. It’s unnerving.

“Hello,” it says, voice sounding raspy and unused.

“Hullo!” Aziraphale pipes up.

This seems to please the creature; eyes curving in mirth, it graces Aziraphale with a nod. “Finally, you can hear me,” it says even as its lips haven't moved.

“It seems so.” Stepping close to Crowley, Aziraphale continues on politely, “I’m Aziraphale and this is Crowley. What’s your name?” Aziraphale, who is quite terrified of humans, finds it infinitely easier to talk to creatures. Crowley finds this charming, and he can’t stop a fond smile from unfolding.

Something like confusion wafts from the creature. “Those are not the names you gave us.”

Crowley frowns. “I don’t recall giving you our names.”

If a creature can roll its eyes, he imagines it’s what it has done in the pause after. “You are not as clever as I deemed you to be.”

“Oi!”

“Do I not feel the same in all three of my forms, Crawly?” The barghest continues, clasping its hands behind its back as it dips its head. “Even my human, who is much older and weaker than you, can sense who and what I am.”

“It’s _Crowley_ ,” Crowley says, cross, “ and I’ve only seen two of your forms, furball, how can I possibly-” There it is again, that smokey inkiness.

"Our identities transcend forms,” it continues even as something dawns on Crowley.

“What’s your other form, if I may ask?” Aziraphale says.

The creature turns to him. “I like you,” it says. “My human thinks you are but a southern dandy, but you were gentle with me.”

“Milk Bottle,” Crowley gasps, “you’re Milk Bottle.” Aziraphale had asked Shadwell, after several longing looks at the dog, if he could pet Milk Bottle, and when the old man had acquiesced (not before several instructions on how to properly tend to his dog), Aziraphale had kindly and softly pet him, taking care to be especially gentle. He’d told Crowley after that he perhaps thought the dog would be skittish and afraid, as if it were abused before, what with Shadwell’s strict instructions. _Abuse recognises abuse_ , he’d said lightly, and Crowley, instead of punching a nearby tree like he would have years ago, had gently steered the conversation to something better.

He loathes Henry.

Milk Bottle bows his head in a nod. “You are sensitive,” he says approvingly.

“Shut up!”

“Milk Bottle?” Aziraphale ventures hesitantly. “DI Shadwell’s dog?”

“I belong to no one,” the barghest says as Crowley exclaims, “He very well _isn’t_ a dog, in’t he?”

“Well, yes, I-” Aziraphale frowns between them. “I mean I suppose it explains things just-” flushing, he fusses with his collar, “I haven’t pet a- a barghest before.” Aww, sweet awkward Aziraphale. Crowley offers him what he hopes is a comforting smile. 

“I quite enjoyed it,” the creature says. His odd, thin lips, stationary this whole time, curve up into a facsimile of a human smile. It is sort of creepy.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, voice small. To Crowley he says, “I was wondering why you weren’t having your usual allergic reaction. I, erm, I’ve even asked DI Shadwell what breed Milk Bottle could possibly be.”

_Aww_. Crowley shrugs, fighting the blush that warms his cheeks. “I still wouldn’t’ve gotten a dog, angel, even if I were to find one I’m not allergic to.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose not.”

“Your names suit you more,” the barghest says, “Crowley and Aziraphale. Yes. Better than Meddows and Meddows.” He examines them carefully. “Witchfinders Crowley and Aziraphale.”

Crowley startles. “You knew?”

The creature nods. “We know your kind: enemies of the supernatural.”

“We?” Aziraphale asks wonderingly. 

Ignoring his question, Milk Bottle continues, “We are old -- older than you can probably imagine -- and time for us bleeds from one era to another. One moment this land was wild with nary a human, in the next they are all you can see on every corner. One forgets _when_ it was, when time is constant and ever changing. But I can still remember the way your kind trampled over our town -- our people -- accusations of witchcraft burning everything down. All we had were ashes and ruins for years, and the mourning seemed eternal. 

“And you have returned now, when we have our town again.” He tilts his head curiously. “We’ve been watching you, seeing you both treat our people with an unusual fascination. I feel no malice or danger from you. To what purpose are you here?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange glances. There is so much to unpack here, Crowley thinks. 

“It started with a break-up, see,” Aziraphale tells Milk Bottle, much to Crowley’s embarrassment. “Bobley was the dumper, unfortunately, and poor Crowley-”

“We’re on a holiday!” Crowley interrupts desperately. “Just- just on a holiday.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s face turns serious. “And then that poor Dowling boy found Luke Masters’ murdered body. He was stabbed by a magical blade and well we-” he nods at Crowley, “we can’t possibly ignore this.”

“If there’s some way we can save someone else from Masters’ fate, we have to find it,” Crowley agrees. 

There’s that unusual smile again, and Crowley feels a prickle of approval from the creature. “You understand,” he says, bony shoulders relaxing, “we do not meddle in human’s affairs.”

Crowley shrugs. “That’s preferable to be honest.”

Milk Bottle sends them both a vaguely guilty look. “Yes. But it is to Tadfield’s detriment, sometimes. My human told you about Luke Masters.” Crowley and Aziraphale both nod. “He has tormented the town long enough.”

“But he’s still part of it,” Aziraphale says.

Milk Bottle dips his head. “Sometimes children are lost in the woods. She’s fond of them, children, so she sends them back on their way. But this… We try to let the humans help themselves.”

“But now?” Aziraphale prompts gently when the barghest hesitates.

“Now.” If a barghest can sigh, this one is. “Now I worry. Humans are delicate and complicated creatures. You are so capable of so many things -- creation, art, magic. And yet you seek to destroy. We do not understand this.”

“Trust me, we humans don’t either,” Crowley says.

“Luke Masters was such a human. He has built and owned so many things in this town, yet he revels in torturing the others. After so many years of just watching in peace, we have considered intervening, keep Tadfield from burning into ashes again. But she was right in refusing this: human lives are short, this too will pass.”

“What’s changed then?”

“You are right about his unusual murder,” the barghest continues. “This is not just a human affair anymore.”

“Brilliant loophole, that,” Aziraphale says, who, Crowley knows, is one to take advantage of a good loophole as well.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” the creature says, taking care to say his name carefully. Aziraphale beams at him. 

“You said you’ve something for us,” Crowley prompts.

“Yes.” Nodding to himself, Milk Bottle continues, “I have heard murmurs of a new creature, sightings from humans and animals alike of one roaming these woods. I have not given it much thought at the time -- we get creatures passing through on occasion: kelpies, ghosts, your odd mermaid. But these whispers persisted, and soon, calves, sheep, and other animals were found strewn about with marks I haven’t seen before. Still, I had paid it no mind -- it has not eaten any of my people.

"And then the night of the fireworks, I finally saw it. My human was watching sparks fall from the sky like stars when that flash of fire happened. The old man missed it -- _I_ barely missed it with my sharper eyes -- but in that brief moment, I saw its silhouette: a stag’s head with a broken horn, long limbs, and a cape of leaves. And its presence… even from such a distance, I can sense it.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I- I’ve an idea what it is,” he says. “Did it, erm, feel old?”

The barghest shakes its head. “No. Yes.”

“Which one is it?” Crowley asks.

Milk Bottle considers it. “It felt,” he says slowly, “It felt like two beings united in a single weakness.”

“Well said,” Aziraphale says.

“What,” Crowley raises an eyebrow at his friend. “Am I missing something, angel?” Aziraphale smiles his _I’ve a theory_ smile. Turning back to Milk Bottle, he asks, “what’s its weakness?”

He feels an odd discomfort from the ancient creature. “His weakness and his strength,” the barghest says, “is a long unending hunger.”

\---

Their fish and chips are cold by the time they return to the hotel.


	5. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s no us, Crowley!” Aziraphale says. “Not when there’s- when there’s- when you’ve made your feelings clear on the matter! ”
> 
> \-- in which Crowley hasn't made his feelings clear on the matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks misseditallagain!

“No, Gabriel, you _cannot_ accuse him of anything! This isn’t his fault, really, I-” 

Crowley wakes in a jolt, startled that he can only hear one now instead of the cacophony of voices yelling and pleading to him from a dark star studded void. He groans, grabbing a pillow to cover his head. Aziraphale isn’t being loud, but it’s really much too early for him to be awake.

“Do _not_ call him Gabriel, he’s asleep!”

Crowley perks up in interest. Taking the pillow off his head, he slowly crawls on his belly so he’s closer to the bath, where Aziraphale seems to have hidden in an attempt to mute his row with Gabriel. The door is slightly open, perhaps carelessly so, and he snickers, proud of his own sly self. Any row with Gabriel should be a fun one, much less one about _Crowley_.

“No- I, _no_ , and-” there’s a pause, and then a heavy sigh. “I know you’re just worried about me, but I can handle myself well, cousin. I’m thirty-seven, for heaven’s sake, I can- yes, I know. He’s been, honestly, a perfect gentleman, despite the, erm, _my_ booking mishap.” 

Crowley preens at this, thoroughly pleased at the idea that Aziraphale is bragging about him. He can just imagine Gabriel’s smug face drawing into that pinched annoyance he always wears around Crowley.

“Yes, he’s well aware of them. How can he not be? Crowley’s so clever and sharp and so-” There’s a heavy sigh. “I can go on, I suppose. You know my- what I feel for him.”

Crowley’s heart plays a long single note, one he can hear from his ears to the tips of his suddenly numb fingers.

“It’s silly, and he- might I remind you of the sirens, Gabriel,” Aziraphale continues, irritation clear in his voice, “He- he _loved_ Bob. That sort of love is- is the sort of love people write about. I can’t… can’t possibly compare to him.”

Oh.

Aziraphale chuckles softly. “I’m sorry I’m boring you with this nonsense. I may deserve better which, with my track record, I really don’t, but he… he’s the one my heart chose, isn’t he?”

_Oh_. There’s that traitorous little kernel of hope again, making his heart beat fast, and joy and worry roar in his ears. This is all a dream, Crowley thinks frantically, trying to squash that hope before it consumes and embarrasses him again, a dream that he’s going to wake from any second now to an Aziraphale who feels nothing but a close friendship with him. 

Lord, he doesn’t want to wake from this.

“Alright, I’ll leave you be, dear cousin. Yes, I’ll try to be proper today,” Aziraphale says, a smile in his voice. “Goodbye, and you as well.”

Crowley quickly scrambles back to his side, flinging their blankets up and over him as he wills his heart to stop beating so fast and so loudly. It doesn’t but his heart never was in the habit of listening to him. Still, when he hears the door to the bathroom creak, he buries his head further into his pillow, making appropriate sleeping snuffly noises (or ones he hopes sounds like his regular sleeping snuffly noises).

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispers hesitantly. There’s a tense pause where Crowley debates answering him, maybe getting up to -- he doesn’t know -- tell the blonde he knows _him_ , that he feels the same, maybe seal it all with a kiss. Crowley’s long resigned himself to cowardice though, and he lays there instead frozen under heaps of flowery sheets.

The other man sighs heavily (in relief? In frustration?). The bed dips as Aziraphale sits on the edge of it, and the colour behind Crowley’s eyelids darken. He opens his eyes to his friend’s hunched dejected back, blond head in his hands. Even like this, Crowley finds him pretty, his silhouette glowing in soft yellow-white hues and blue shadows. 

Lord, but he can’t take it when Aziraphale is miserable. 

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut and stretching his arms out as if he’s just woken up irritated. He huffs a sigh at the end, tossing an arm over his face. “Ugh,” he says, trying to make it all the more obvious that he is now awak.

Aziraphale chuckles, bringing sunlight with him as he shifts around to turn to Crowley. “Hullo, dear friend.”

Crowley removes his arm from his eyes, fixing Aziraphale with a sleepy little smirk. “You alright, angel?” 

Aziraphale beams at him, warm and bright. “Alright.”

Crowley’s heart sings that long note again.

\---

Doctor Raven Sable’s pediatric clinic is a physical oxymoron: professional, sleek edges contrasted with colourful precious children’s toys and books. There are various shades of snake plants and ivies carefully arranged on the window sills -- well out of reach of children -- and a lovely pot of african violets decorates the receptionist’s neat desk, while little cubbies filled with cartoonish books and little blocks grace the lower levels.

On a good day -- not that this isn't a good day, really it _should_ be the best day, when one learns that the torch one has been steadily carrying since what feels like the dawn of time actually has an opposite reciprocal torch carried by the same person one has been carrying it for?

Anyway. 

On a good, normal day, Crowley would be up, flitting from one snake plant to another, admiring their sleek little yellow-green leaves while revelling in the knowledge that, while he has a particular fondness for all snake plants, these ones still can’t possibly compare to the ones he has in London. They know better than to sport alien brown spots like the one closest to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale catches his eyes from across Newt, and beams at him. Crowley takes a moment to parse this. Has he… has he always smiled at Crowley like this- like Crowley is possibly the only person in the world that he, sweet covetous Aziraphale, would willingly share the last slice of a bakewell tart with? Or is this a new development, a slow comfortable slope from friendship to- to _feelings_?

He must’ve been staring for too long -- Aziraphale tilts his head, a small confused frown on his brows. Crowley laughs awkwardly, waving his concern away in a clumsy flick of his hand as he slouches deep into his seat. He hopes the collar of his coat is hiding his burning face. It took one small conversation between Aziraphale and Gabriel for him to so easily embarrass himself like this. 

Newt clears his throat, settling his glasses over his eyes when Crowley turns to him. “Had a- how was- good sleep?” he asks, eyes darting from Crowley to Aziraphale and then back again. He’s been acting quite odd since they’d ran into Miss Potts on their way back from DI Shadwell’s, and even odder still when he’d climbed into the Bentley this morning.

Crowley scoffs. “No, we stayed up all night talking to a legendary beast, only to learn that perhaps, the killer is all of Tadfield all along.”

Newt sits up straight in alarm. “Really!”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Oh _of course,_ ” he continues on sarcastically, “big town conspiracy this. They’ve all schemed to cover for each other and everything!”

“This is,” eyes wide beneath his dorky little frames, Newt digs into his pockets, “I should be taking this down, shouldn’t I? Oh, where’s that pen?” 

Crowley snickers. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Crow- Deacon, must you, really?” Aziraphale sighs, and when Crowley makes the mistake of sliding his eyes from Newt’s panicked ones to his friend’s pretty blues, he feels his face flush even deeper. He turns away hastily, tucking his hands into his jacket. Lord, even his ears are burning.

“So…” Newt starts in the ensuing silence. “There- there _isn’t_ a conspiracy is there?

Aziraphale chuckles awkwardly. “No we- well, we possibly can’t know, can we? We haven’t really- erm. Well, to answer your question, yes we had a good sleep.”

“The best,” Crowley pipes up piteously from within his coat. Where is that blasted doctor, and why is it taking him so long to see them?

“Deacon,” Aziraphale says, “is there-” he pauses unsurely.

Crowley looks up, careful to keep his eyes just off his friend’s shoulder. He only feels mildly pathetic. “Yeah, no, everything is- as they say- or rather as Gabriel would say, err, this day has been a peach of cake. Perfectly, err,” he clears his throat, “perfect.”

“Perfectly perfect,” Aziraphale echoes. 

“Perfectly!”

Newt leaps to his feet, startling both Crowley and Aziraphale. “I’m going to-” he gestures to the receptionist, walking briskly away from them.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice low, “is something the matter?”

“I told you, angel, everything’s-”

“Perfectly perfect I know.” Aziraphale dips his head so Crowley has no choice but to meet his eyes. “You’ve been strange all morning.”

“Have I?” Crowley asks tightly.

His friend nods. “You’ve been quiet,” Aziraphale says, “and extraordinarily nervous. Are you-” Crowley notices it, Aziraphale’s eyes widening just a fraction in realisation. “Have I- have I done something to- did you hear…” he trails off unsurely, a hand fussing with his sleeve. “I called Gabriel this morning.”

“Did you?” Crowley squeaks.

Aziraphale blanches, and suddenly, Crowley knows Aziraphale knows. His friend’s face crumbles and Aziraphale looks away, worrying his lips and fingers. “I suppose I-” he stops again. Sighing heavily, he says, “I hope I wasn’t too loud about- I know I can be.”

Crowley’s shoulders lower where they were spiked up, and he reaches a hand out to rest over his friend’s. He hesitates -- he won’t be able to let go, he knows, now that he knows that maybe his feelings aren’t at all as unrequited as he thought they were. He tucks it back in his coat. “No, angel, you were perfectly quiet,” Crowley says, and when Aziraphale looks over, he offers him a gentle smile.

Aziraphale smiles back, but the tilt of it seems wrong, seems more dejected than it should be. “Oh, I...” he trails off softly. “I understand.”

“Aziraphale, you should know,” Crowley swallows, “that I- well, that is to say you and I have-”

“Good news!” Newt interrupts excitedly, oblivious to the strange tension between the two of them. Crowley hates him a little bit. “I’ve managed to convince Miss Moonchild to shift things around and-” he pauses, glancing between the two of them. “Everything sorted?”

“There’s nothing to sort!” Crowley exclaims. 

Aziraphale gets up, smoothing a hand over another holiday shirt -- a grey one he’d bought in America with two cacti and _Can’t Touch This_ written underneath -- and his tan coat before clasping his hands together. “Absolutely tickety-boo,” he says with a smile that Crowley knows he only wears when everything is decidedly _not_ tickety-boo. “Is the good doctor ready to see us?”

Newt beams. “Yep!” Tilting his head to where Miss Moonchild is patiently waiting for them, he says, “Shall we?”

Aziraphale nods, walking ahead without even a backward glance at Crowley. 

Doctor Raven Sable’s office is green and grey and smells strongly like dirt after a good rain. Unlike the ordered chaos from outside, his room is neat and particular, indoor fig trees and dracaneas carefully arranged so while the overall look is very much that of the woods, it feels warm and welcoming, like a cool summer’s day spent in a forest glen. 

The doctor is watering one of the dracanea when they enter, and he looks up, gracing them with an elegant smile. “Gentlemen,” he says with an American accent, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Doctor,” Newt steps forward, hand outstretched, “nice to finally meet you. Big fan of your work, me. DC Newton Pulsifer.” The doctor eyes his hand hesitantly, deigning to shake it only when Newt extends it to him even further. “These are my, err, my consultants John and Deacon Meddows.”

“Consultants!” Sable says. “My, what need would the police have for consultants?”

Crowley shrugs, rubbing his hand against his jeans before offering it to Sable. The flinch on the man’s narrow face satisfies him. Crowley pumps his hand twice for good measure, smirk in place. “Just here to offer young Pulsifer some help, Doctor,” he says, “Can’t be too generous these days.”

“Well put,” Sable says, taking his hand back quickly. Aziraphale, in lieu of a handshake, tosses the man a quick smile and a polite nod. Pleased, Sable offers them the couch in front of his desk as he settles behind it, tucking his beautiful metal watering can beneath. “So," he starts, taking a moment to sanitise his hands with the tall bottle of green gel on his desk, "are the police _consulting_ with me as well?”

Newt steals a look to Crowley, before he says, “Not a consultation, as much as a, err…” he trails off uncertainly.

“We have a few questions for you, Doctor.” Crowley leans forward, ignoring the way his leg presses against Aziraphale’s. This couch is really much too small for three grown men. 

A frown appears on the man’s smooth forehead. “Concerning what?”

“Concerning whom, rather,” Crowley replies. “Luke Masters.”

“Not a consultation,” Sable echoes Newt, “as much as an interrogation, hmmm?”

“No, not at all!” Newt protests. “We aren’t really accusing you of anything, Doctor, it’s just that, well, you haven’t really got any alibi for the night of Lucas Masters’ murder.” Sable arcs an eyebrow up. “Miss Moonchild told me you left early that day,” Newt continues, “and Scarlette from the Red & Egret said you weren’t there for your daily beer and stew.”

Crowley’s impressed -- maybe the boy really isn’t as daft as Crowley thinks he is. “You’ve got to admit there’s something a bit dodgy there,” he tells Sable. 

The doctor leans back, a hand reaching to stroke the pot of a lone, elegant bonsai tree on his desk. “I’m a suspect.”

“You don’t have to be,” Crowley says, “not if you’ve got a proper alibi.”

Sable appears to contemplate this -- frown now deeply etched between his brows, lips pursed and fingers drawing up to trace the bonsai’s beautiful carefully clipped branches, he bides his time. “I was at home,” he says, and while there’s a confidence in his voice, Crowley knows a lie when he sees one. 

Still, he nods, the very picture of a patient detective. “Alright,” he says, “have you got any witnesses?”

“Witnesses, goodness!” Sable exclaims with a laugh. “One would think I’m being accused of something I am very well not!”

Crowley spreads his hands placatingly. “We’re just crossing people off our extensive list,” he says. “Really, it would be much easier for us if we had less people to be suspicious about.”

Newt nods. “We’re talking to the Them after,” he says.

Sable nods, satisfied. “I’m as much of a suspect as the Them,” he says. “I suppose this is why the police have hired consultants.”

Crowley shrugs. “We’re doing this pro-bono,” he says.

“Admirable.” Leaning back, the doctor clasps his hands over his desk, bones jutting awkwardly despite the delicate gesture. “I was calling my mother,” he says. “She had a family lunch and asked if I could call to say hello to the rest of them. I left work early so I could make it in time.”

“Your family,” Aziraphale, who has been silent up until then, says softly, “are they back in America?”

Sable eyes him with an interest that makes Crowley uncomfortable. “Canada,” he says just as softly. “Moved there when I was nine, no, ten years old.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Beautiful country.”

“It is.” 

“We spent a lovely summer in Vancouver,” Aziraphale continues. “The forests there are absolutely gorgeous.”

This brings out a wistful smile from Sable, the harsh lines of his narrow face softening into something quite handsome. “They are,” he agrees.

“Such ancient big trees.”

Sable nods. “My friends loved hunting,” he says, hurriedly continuing when Aziraphale winces, “and while I didn’t, I loved them and I loved spending time in the forests. We would take weeks off at the end of summer and drive up to my buddy’s cabin. And when they’re off hunting game, I would take long walks in the woods, bask in the utter quiet and solitude. You’d like it there,” he tells Aziraphale. “When you look up, you can’t see where the trees ended and the sky began and you’d realise that nature is beyond what humans can understand and appreciate. In a hundred years, everything and everyone we have known would have gone, but nature lives on. It will recover from our follies.” He pauses, smiling at Aziraphale bashfully, and he laughs to himself. “I apologise, it seems I have commandeered this conversation. I do so love trees.”

Crowley shrugs, unconsciously leaning closer to Aziraphale. The slag, smiling at his (fake) husband like _that_. “We know,” he says, “you smell like it.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing to apologise for,” Crowley says, leaning back to place an arm over the back of the sofa on Aziraphale’s side, “you smell like the forest. It’s not something to be embarrassed about -- I’ve certainly smelled worse.”

“I don’t smell it,” Newt is quick to offer.

Again, Crowley shrugs. “I’ve a sensitive nose,” he tells them both. “You know this, don’t you, angel?” He only feels gratified at the doctor’s surprised expression.

Aziraphale smiles tightly, shaking his head slightly. “Please, Deacon, don’t be rude.”

“The forest,” Newt interjects, sending them a strong look: _sort this out privately_ , “is actually an excellent segue to well,” he gestures to all three of them, “why we’re all here really.”

Sable leans back, and Crowley feels an odd sort of discomfort from him. Huh. “Is that so?” The man asks, dark hands fiddling with his bonsai again.

“Five years ago,” and here Crowley feels that wash of discomfort again, even though Sable’s face remains smooth and unflappable as ever, “you were found naked and emaciated in the dense forests of British Columbia after having gone missing with a group of friends for three months, all of which were, unfortunately, never found.”

“This happened a long time ago,” Sable says, a note of defensiveness in his voice. 

Crowley spreads his hands in a shrug. “A man disappeared and was found murdered a few days later in the same town where a man disappeared five years ago with his friends, only to come back without them. It’s _well_ dodgy.”

Sable turns to Newt. “I thought this wasn’t an interrogation.”

“Not yet,” Crowley says. The doctor's eye twitches, although he keeps both on Newt.

Newt smiles at him apologetically. “It doesn’t have to be,” he says placatingly, although a clear line of irritation appears between the doctor’s brows.

“Your mother,” Aziraphale interjects, “you called her that night.”

Sable’s head swivels to him, his frown softening somewhat. Crowley purses his lips. “I did,” Sable says.

Aziraphale fixes him a gentle smile, the other man answering it with a smaller one of his own. Crowley understands -- he can never resist any of Aziraphale’s smiles. “If you can get us a record of that or your mother’s statement, you’re, well, as my cousin would say, a right swell of rain.”

Sable chuckles. “I like your cousin.”

“I do too.”

Crowley, who most definitely does _not_ like Gabriel says loudly, “Me three!” Aziraphale frowns at him. “What,” Crowley says, sinking into his coat again, “I can’t like the in-laws or summat?”

“That’s not what you said the other day,” Newt mutters to himself.

“Wassat?”

“Nothing!”

“In any case,” Sable says, turning fully to grace Aziraphale with a disarming smile. Crowley scowls. “I’ll get you your witness, Mr. Meddows.”

“John, please,” Aziraphale says.

“No, darling,” Crowley says, taking Aziraphale’s hand, “let’s not be too familiar with a suspect.”

Aziraphale sighs, pulling his hand away from Crowley’s. “Don’t be rude.”

This seems to amuse Sable -- the doctor chuckles as he gets up, a hand already extended to the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me gentlemen,” he says, “I’ve a patient arriving just about now. Shall we,” he slides a look to Aziraphale, and Crowley wishes with a fierceness born from nearly a decade of pining that he could draw Aziraphale against him, an arm over those thick shoulders, “continue discussing this another time?”

“Certainly,” Crowley grits out from between his teeth before Aziraphale can say anything, “my _husband_ and I would be delighted to be back.” Preferably with silver shackles, he thinks venomously.

Ignoring him, Sable goes on with his eyes fixed on Aziraphale, “There’s a lovely place by the lake that serves hardy steak pies. Perhaps, you can carve out the time to come join me?”

Aziraphale flushes, probably finally cottoning on to Sable’s not so subtle flirting. “Well I-” he says, flustered, “I can’t possibly-”

“Come now, _darling_. ” Crowley gives in, snaking an arm around Aziraphale. “We’ve lots to do, lots to interrogate! Let’s leave the good doctor to his… good doctoring.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Aziraphale spares Sable a small smile, cheeks still a pretty pink colour. “Thank you for the invitation, Doctor Sable.”

“Raven, please,” Sable says. To Crowley, he says, “Take care, Meddows. Strange and dangerous things are afoot.” There’s a sudden strong wave of that woodsy smell, of dirt and moss and growth, and if it weren’t for his arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders, Crowley would have crumbled to his knees. As it were, he only stumbles slightly, the blonde placing a hand on his chest.

“Crow- Deacon?” Aziraphale’s brows are knit in concern and Crowley aches to smooth them.

“I’m alright,” Crowley says, straightening up. “Just, stumbled a little in all this clutter.” He turns to glare at Sable, only to find the man staring at him thoughtfully. “Huh,” the man says eloquently. He smiles at Crowley, sharp and shark-like, as if he’s figured out a secret the redhead didn’t know he had, and for some odd reason, Crowley finds himself wondering this as well.

\---

As soon as they’re out of view of the clinic, Aziraphale ducks out from under his arm, swivelling around angrily to face Crowley. His face is flushed with the splotchy red Crowley knows he gets when he’s especially furious. 

“How dare you!” he exclaims.

“What?” Crowley says just as loudly. “Me? You’re mad at _me_?”

“I’m just going to-” Newt gestures to the side, “I’m gonna start walking that- yes that way, I think.” He shuffles away quickly, stealing a look back to them once, before making his way across the street.

Sighing exasperatedly, Aziraphale marches to a hidden alley, pivoting around when Crowley follows him. “You were very unprofessional, Crowley.”

“Me?!” Crowley gasps, surprised. “What about _him_?! He was laying it on thick, wasn’t he?”

Aziraphale flinches. “He wasn’t-”

“He clearly wasn’t above flirting with someone else’s husband, that slag-”

“Well I’m not, am I?” Aziraphale snaps. “Your husband.”

That startles Crowley enough for him to forget his ensuing rant. “What?”

“I’m not your husband,” Aziraphale repeats. “And you- you’ve absolutely no right to act like you- like you _own_ me. I’ve had enough of people thinking they do!”

“Well, it’s our cover, innit?” Crowley growls. “Or are we shifting this around so you play the adulterous husband out having seaside dinners with small town doctors while I, clearly the stupid one, am sat twiddling my stupid little fingers as I wait for you to come back to our stupid hotel-”

“How dare you,” Aziraphale fumes.

“How dare- how dare _me_?!” Crowley yells, something not unlike hurt and betrayal settling in his chest. Serves him right, really, thinking that Aziraphale’s feelings are as strong as his. “I thought you- well, you certainly don’t, don’t you, considering his offer like-”

“Are you accusing me of cheating on you?” Aziraphale asks incredulously.

Crowley flinches. “Well I-”

“There’s no _us_ , Crowley!” Aziraphale says. “Not when there’s- when there’s- when you’ve made _your_ feelings clear on the matter! ”

Oh, but that hurts. “Obviously,” he retorts quickly, angrily, “what with you oh so ready to just jump into whatever offer that bastard-”

“What makes you think I am?” Aziraphale fires back. “You didn’t think-” His round face crumples, and he looks away. “After this morning, did you really think I could just- just forget about how I-” He places a hand on his chest, hand clawed. 

Crowley’s indignation slowly melts away. He reaches out. “Aziraphale-”

“No,” Aziraphale says, stepping back away from him. “You can’t do this to me, Crowley. You can’t pretend deaf to how I- to how much I-” His eyes well up with unshed tears, and he swipes at them angrily. “You can’t pretend nothing happened and on the next breath demand that I stay chained to you when someone else shows any interest. It’s- it’s unfair.”

“T-that’s not what I- Aziraphale,” Crowley splutters, suddenly remembering his words this morning: _he’s well aware of them. How can he not be?_ “You must know I don’t-”

“I’m not anyone’s replacement,” Aziraphale growls. “I can’t be- I can’t have you think of me as _him_ just because I- I have feelings for you.”

Crowley’s heart sings that long, joyful note, only for it to be smothered in the face of Aziraphale’s anger. “I’m not! I’m not-”

Aziraphale steps away from him again. “I think,” he says slowly, “we should spend the day away from each other.”

“Aziraphale, please-”

“I’ll meet you back in the hotel,” Aziraphale says, cold steel in his voice. 

And with that, he leaves Crowley miserable in the alleyway wishing he hadn’t completely lost his chance like he must have a long time ago.

\---

“You done fucked up, son,” Anathema says after he’s blubbered through the whole story.

“Don’t swear,” he says tiredly. The ocean air ruffles his hair, and it feels as delicious as the salty sweet smell that only seaside places are lucky to have, but he hardly enjoys it. He draws his knees closer to himself, toes drawing lines on the sand.

“I will fucking swear however much I want,” she says. 

He sighs. “I miss the old you. Remember? You used to look up to me.”

“Yes, until I learned how stupid you can get,” Anathema says. “Seriously, the man basically confesses his love for you, you pretend you didn’t hear anything _while_ planning to possibly do something about it, and then you go ahead and call him a slut when someone else happened to find him pretty.”

“I didn’t call him a slut,” Crowley protests. The word he used was _slag_ and that was pertaining to that asshole Sable, and he tells her so.

Anathema blows a raspberry at him. “That’s so Victorian of you Anthony, slut-shaming.”

“Sable was flirting with my husband!”

“Not your husband.”

Crowley sighs heavily again. “No,” he says, “but we _are_ pretending to be married!”

“See, that’s where you’ve both gone wrong,” Anathema says, voice gentler this time, “agreeing to this stupid little ruse when you both well know you’ve got unresolved feelings for each other.”

“Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That he, you know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “That he’s got. For me.”

Anathema hums thoughtfully. “When was the last time you both visited me together? Five… six years ago?”

Crowley pauses to count in his head. Maths was never his strong point. “Six years ago, that must’ve been.”

“Yeah. That was, what, a year or two after he booted Henry, yeah?” Crowley agrees with a soft _yeah_. “Aziraphale’s aura then was… mottled. As if he’d still been fighting against whatever Henry had over him and his strange newfound freedom and loneliness. He- I’m sorry, Anthony, at the time I don’t think he had any feelings for you. And I never thought, well. I’ve always resented him for that.”

Crowley frowns. “Did you?”

“How can I not? The one person I loved the most in the world loved someone who couldn’t possibly love him back. It was hideously wrong.”

Despite himself, Crowley smiles. “Aww,” he says, “you love me the most.”

There’s a pause and then, “No I don’t.”

“Aww,” he teases on, “I knew you had some fondness for me deep in that dark soulless heart, but I didn’t know you loved me! The most, even!”

“Goodbye, I’m hanging up.”

Crowley laughs. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” He wraps an arm across his knees. “Don’t leave me to my misery.”

“If I did, no one else is gonna pick up the sad, sad pieces of you,” Anathema says, “You’ll let the sea sweep you away somewhere where you don’t have to be brave enough to face Aziraphale and tell him how you feel.”

Crowley winces. “Ouch.”

“Look,” Anathema begins seriously, “I love you, and I do think you’re the best big brother slash wacky young uncle a traumatised little girl who watched her family murdered in front of her can ever have and- oh stop making that face.”

Crowley smooths his face, even as he checks he hasn’t accidentally turned the camera on his mobile. He hasn’t. “What face?”

“That face you make when you think I’m trivialising my trauma, which, really Anthony, I can deal with it however much I want.”

Crowley’s shoulders slump forward. “I just worry.”

“I know,” Anathema says. “And I worry about you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I guess,” she says, a shrug in her voice, “but I still do. Anthony, you deserve love as much as the rest of us do, you know? Even if it’s with pretty, stupid Aziraphale.”

Crowley huffs a laugh out of his nose. “I suppose he was right about your dislike of him.”

“I suppose he’s not so stupid after all.”

“Shut it.” Crowley sighs. “Sorry, I’m a coward.”

“So is he,” Anathema is quick to reply. “You know, I’ve never forgiven him for Crete.”

“That wasn’t his-”

“Look,” she interrupts, “we can both agree that when it comes to Aziraphale, your perspective is a bit skewed. He took advantage of you as much as you may have taken advantage of him.”

“You’re being too harsh on him,” Crowley admonishes. 

“Maybe,” she says, “maybe someone has got to be when you’re handling him like he breaks easily. I… I may resent him, but the man has an admirable spine, Anthony. He’s got to if he can walk away from an abusive relationship with his head held high and his moral core strong. Whatever you dish out, he can take it- ugh.” She makes a noise of disgust. “Poor choice of words.”

Crowley flushes. “You’re a _baby,_ you shouldn’t know about these things!”

“For Hecate’s- I’m _twenty_!”

“Yes, a baby! You have yet to know the ways of the world, dear child!”

“Disgusting!” Taking on a more serious note, she continues, “anyway. All I’m saying is this: you two need to sit the fuck down and _talk_. None of these half words and allusions and _does it need to be said_ ’s. Talk, like proper people.”

Crowley runs a hand through his hair. “What if he wouldn’t want to talk with me?” he asks piteously. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Anathema says, lightly amused. “Aziraphale listens to you. He always has.”

“And then things will be better?” he asks hopefully.

“I don’t know,” Anathema says, “prophecies are more of Abuela’s thing. What, would you like me to ask her about-”

“No, no, no, no, no, dear lord no!” She cackles. “You’re horrible, I don’t know why I love you.”

“It’s because I’m amazing.” Crowley surrenders a hum of agreement. “These are the facts, Anthony: he has feelings for you, maybe for a while now. He’s apparently defended you against his dick of a cousin and he was fully ready to reject the doctor because of you. Don’t you think the odds are heavily stacked in your favour?”

“I… I suppose?”

She sighs heavily and Crowley can almost imagine her majestic eyeroll. “Buy him flowers,” she advises, “sit him down, tell him how you feel, and you will be making out with him in no time. Just- just maybe don’t slut shame him this time?”

Crowley laughs sheepishly, allowing himself this swell of hope in his chest. “I was a right idiot, wasn’t I?”

“The worst idiot.”

“The idiot you love the most in the world?” he says with a grin.

“I am hanging up, goodbye, never call me again-”

Crowley laughs. Beyond him, the grass and ocean sings with him, and the beauty of it all fills him with sunny optimism.

\---

“Excuse me!” A cloying voice calls out as he makes his way to the hotel’s lone elevator. “Excuse me, you- yes you with the sunglasses!” He turns around, surprised to see Miss Potts in a more colourful version of her usual attire. Gone are the long cardigans and tasteful chunky jewelry. In their place are sheer scarves wrapped around her neck and bottle red hair, a flowing light vest, and cheerfully loud bangles that clanged as she waves to him. Crowley winces. This woman talks too much.

Still he pauses, waiting patiently as she pads over to him in her bare feet. “You’re Mr. Fell- Mr. Meddow’s husband, aren’t you?” she asks, a charming smile on her face. He nods. She’d been so confused when Newt introduced them to her as the Meddows. 

“Yes, erm, my husband isn’t used to the whole,” he waves his hand around, the fan of flowers a colourful graceful arc, “married thing yet.”

She tsks. “And here I thought you were trying to be discreet. But, no matter, I thought, Madame Tracy knows all.” She taps the side of her head in what she thinks is a mysterious manner. “Besides, we’re an accepting lot here in Tadfield. Why, when I was younger, my wife and I-” 

Crowley spaces out as she prattles on, trying to smile politely at her while he shuffles slowly to the elevator. He wants to get to their suite soon, well, as soon as possible, prime it for a proper apology before Aziraphale comes back. He wonders if he should’ve bought Aziraphale apology chocolates -- he does so love his sweets -- or one of those tacky holiday shirts at the shop he’d been dithering about three days ago.

Oh lord. He hadn’t even known Aziraphale had _feelings_ for him three days ago. He feels his face heat up, and Miss Potts must notice; she smiles at him as if he’s a sweet pup. “Are these flowers for him?” She touches a petal from the veritable bouquet Crowley’s carrying. He nods, flushing deeper. He hasn’t bought flowers for anyone in a while, not even for Bob. “Ah, to be young and in love! Gertie, darling thing she was, she used to buy me these little things -- unromantic things really -- little stone figurines. I’d thought, these knick knacks strewn about my house will be the death of me! But then, when I was cross with her or when I’m especially missing her,” a mist clouds her eyes, but she shakes it away with a wide smile, “It’s been twenty long years, but whenever I see a stone thing, I remember all the love that we had.”

“Isn’t it a grand thing?” Crowley says gently, feeling that warmth that Aziraphale’s given him spread through his chest. “Love.”

“Very grand,” she says softly. She gestures out as they come to a stop near the elevator. “Well, I’ll let you go on. You’ve things to do- oh! Right, I’ve a message for you.” She ruffles through her many layers, bangles and beads creating an odd sort of music as she digs through them in her pockets. She emerges with an _aha!_ and a piece of paper folded between her fingers. “Mr. Shadwell, oh you know him, dear silly old man. He stopped by earlier, said a… Sergeant Milk Bottle? Yes. I remember. It was an odd name, that. Well, he’s got a message for you and I told him to write it down. I’ve respect for my patrons’ privacy.”

“Cheers,” he says as she hands it over. “He’s asked about you, DI Shadwell.”

She blushes. _Interesting_ , Crowley thinks. “Has he,” she asks lightly, the way one does when one tries not to sound too interested.

Crowley shrugs oh so casually. “Asked us if you were single.” He tries to ignore how her eyes light up in delight, but he can’t help the pleased smile spreading across his lips. “Wouldn’t know the answer of course-”

“Of course,” she says hurriedly.

“But if you were to, I don’t know, mention it next time-”

“Maybe next time.”

“Good.” He jabs at the elevator button. Well, that’s one good deed done today.

“You’re a darling man,” she tells him, and before he can interject with a smart quip, she goes on, “and I’m sure Mr. Meddows -- the other one, obviously,” she laughs at her own little joke, “is lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to have him,” Crowley says, used to the strong wave of longing that comes with the idea of him and Aziraphale together. He is lucky to have him, even as a friend.

She beams. “Well, now I really have to let you go,” she says as the elevator opens with a creak. “Apologies for the state of things,” she gestures out to the oddly grimey interior, “been like this for days now. But I do hope you stop by again! Have a chat with an old woman.”

“I would love that, Miss Potts,” he says, and he’s surprised to find that he means it. Taking her hand, he kisses it.

She giggles. “Oh, you charmer, you!” Leaning closer, she says with a hand at the side of her mouth, “And it’s Madame Tracy today. Stop by at the right time and maybe I can tell yours and the husband’s fortunes! I’ve magic, you know.”

Crowley, who has fought and saved all sorts of cryptids and magical creatures and is an uncle slash brother of some sort to a witch, knows she doesn’t but he smiles kindly at her all the same. “I can tell.”

\---

There’s an odd, dirt smell in their room when he enters it, but he reckons that’s what happens when you’ve got two men tracking forest dirt everywhere the night before. He sighs as he locks the door. 

The plan is this: tidy the room, order takeaway and sweets before Aziraphale arrives, wait for him in an attractive pose (by the window, profile tilted to show off his nose. Crowley quite likes his own nose), and when Aziraphale arrives, apologise in a suave manner, sweep the man off his feet, and if possible, kiss him. 

He indulges on that last thought a bit too long.

There’s a vase on the table closest to Aziraphale’s side of the bed, and he contemplates replacing its plastic flowers with the bouquet he got his friend. He’s sure Miss Potts won’t mind -- it’ll please her that those monstrosities were sacrificed in the name of love.

Or, he thinks as he places the bouquet gently over their now neater bedsheets, he could present these flowers as they are, with the pretty little bow and paper still wrapped around them. When he’d told the ladies in the flower shop that he’d needed a proper thing for an apology, they’d taken one look at his face and decided, rather quickly, that he needed a big cheesy bouquet of pink roses and lilies, and a little white card with a fancy script that says _I love you, I’m sorry_. He’d given them a huge tip for their thoughtfulness, but the card, well, he’d hidden it deep in his jeans.

Taking the vase, he dumps the plastic flowers out and shoves them under the bed. He gently unwraps his beautiful flowers and places them into the vase only to take them out again to put some water and sugar in before dropping them back in. The wrap he throws away, but he ties the ribbon around the vase, trying to replicate the pretty bow the ladies had tied it into. It’s a bit wonky, but he quite liked how plump its wings are. He sets the vase back on the bedside table, angling it so the light hits the ribbon just so to bring out its satiny finish.

He catches himself before he can smile proudly for tying a ribbon. Lord, what has Aziraphale done to him -- he hasn’t tried this hard for any relationship he’s ever had. 

Pleased with the state of their bed despite two men vying for the covers all night, he sets about tidying the rest of the room. Fortunately, there really isn’t much to clean; where the rest of the hotel is dusty and oddly grimey, their room is always neat when they come back after a long day. Their messes are left untouched -- Aziraphale makes it a point to leave a banknote and a little note for the staff to leave his books well alone -- but the cupboards and tables are dusted, their bins emptied, and their towels replaced with fluffy ones that smell of sea air. Really, all Crowley needs to do is concede a pillow to Aziraphale’s side. The blonde has got to know how sorry he is about… well the whole thing really.

He’s contemplating which of the softer ones he’s going to have to give up, when he feels it more than he smells it again: seedlings pushing up from wet earth, bark freshly torn from a tree. His head shoots up to the window across him and he sees a hulking dark mass behind him, standing tall and hunched so its antlers only barely scratch the ceiling. Crowley can feel the creature’s breath on his neck as they stare at each other, both staying patiently frozen. 

The creature crouches, and quick as a whip, Crowley flings a soft pillow at him, leaping and rolling across the bed to the other side. He slides his favourite knife out from where it’s strapped against his leg, gripping it firmly. He feels annoyance drip from the creature, and when he looks under the bed, he sees its cloven feet clomp slowly towards him, little vines curling and uncurling ‘round deer-like legs. 

Blast. Aziraphale’s theory is proven right again.

Quietly and as stealthily as he can, he crawls on his belly under the bed. The _new_ plan is this: leap out, throw the knife at the creature to distract it enough so he can run out and down to the lobby where it can’t possibly risk showing itself, grab Aziraphale, apologise frantically, and have his brilliant friend cook up a _proper_ plan to capture this creature. Humanely, of course. 

The plastic flowers he’d kicked under the bed earlier rustle noisily as he crawls across them, and he stills. Perhaps, he thinks futilely, this creature hasn't heard it yet over the panicky beats of his heart. Everything quiets, deceptively calm, nothing but Crowley's soft frantic breaths in the air. 

Vines shoot out from behind him, wrapping around his left ankle in a tight grip. He’s unceremoniously pulled out, shirt rucked and hair mussed, as the vines melt back into the skeletal hands of the creature. He feels rather than hears it laugh, dark and amused like some sort of demonic prankster. 

He’ll allow him this, the knob. He lets himself go slack and heavy, hardly responding when the creature swings him. Soon, the amusement dies down into confusion when he remains limp in its hold, and when its hands relax somewhat, Crowley bends himself to slash up with his knife. It draws a clean painful gash across its bark covered arm, and it lets him go with an angry yell.

Crashing on the bed, Crowley tries to quickly flip himself to crawl over it. But before he can, the creature grabs his ankle again to pull him back, draping itself over Crowley so the antlered skull is almost pressed against his face.

_I knew you were trouble_ , it says with the venom of an irritated schoolmarm.

“I do try,” Crowley says. Something about this creature feels familiar, as if he’s met it before. 

He’s got the distinct feeling that it’s scowling at him. Leaning closer, pollen like things float from its eyes and into Crowley’s, little spores growing brighter and denser until that’s all Crowley can see.

The whiteness is so intense, so painful and overwhelming, that it-

It’s the last thing he sees before he passes out.


	6. The Wendigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of course you would think so,” the creature says, “he’s got you wrapped around his finger.” Aziraphale stays quiet, and Crowley feels his own face flush deeply. “Shame, that.”
> 
> \-- in which Aziraphale hatches a rescue plan and confessions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks misseditallagain!

“You’re allowing me to go.” There’s a murmur of assent. “Well surely- I mean I suppose it would be polite for you to let him go as well.”

“It’s not a matter of politeness,” a smooth, familiar dark voice says almost regretfully.

“It’s sort of unfair, really, me sat here while he hangs there- oh I do hope he’s not terribly uncomfortable.”

“He is.” A slide of a derisive chuckle slips into Crowley’s mind as he comes to, a series of swirling thoughts and another dream of faceless voices melting into a stark bright pain. “I trust you,” the dark voice continues, “I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t know him. You don’t know me either.”

“No, I guess not. He _is_ irritating though, isn’t he?” 

Something pokes at Crowley’s side and he swings groggily. He groans, trying to reach up to his head only to find that he can’t move his arms at all. Or his feet. Or his torso or his mouth. His eyes shoot open, only for them to close again. Crowley is no stranger to great heights -- he rather enjoys them really in select settings -- but hanging from a tall tree upside down wrapped in thick ropes of vines isn’t something he’d thought he would be utterly terrified by. He whimpers quietly into his leaf gag.

“Come now,” the voice he recognises as Aziraphale chides gently, “he’s got his… charms.”

A deep chuckle and suddenly Crowley feels sweet leaves and grass after rain. Ugh, of course it’s _him_. He opens his eyes into a tiny crack, scowling when he sees the long stag skull. It’s dark now with the crackle of fire illuminating the glen, and it only served to make the beast in front of him more ominous than Crowley finds him. 

One of the creature’s antlers is broken, but that does not distract from the absolute beauty of the skull, from the worn scratches along its edges to the beautiful intricate carvings. His long skinny body looks as if it’s eternally starved, with its prominent ribs and jutting hipbones and the alarming narrowness of his waist, but the cape of vines and leaves that drag along and curl over his deer legs serve to make him look more substantial and impressive than Crowley can ever admit he is.

Not when he’s such a bell end, this creature.

“Of course you would think so,” he says, “he’s got you wrapped around his finger.” Aziraphale stays quiet, and Crowley feels his own face flush deeply. “Shame, that.”

“You mustn’t tease, Doctor Sable.”

“Raven, please,” Sable says.

“I suppose.” Aziraphale pauses. “I quite like your name. It suits you.”

“Yours as well. More than _John_ did. A unique name for a unique man.” Crowley scowls. _Of course_ Sable would find it in him to flirt outrageously even when in such a horrifying form. “Witchfinder Aziraphale Fell. I never thought I could sit here and talk about politeness with a man trained to kill creatures with my… afflictions.”

“You mustn’t talk about yourself that way,” Aziraphale says earnestly, “you’re a creature who needs things to survive.”

“One must not justify murder.”

“No. You haven’t murdered anyone, have you?”

“You don’t know me,” Sable snarls.

“This isn’t your fault-”

There’s a loud roar, and when Crowley’s eyes snap open, he’s alarmed to find Sable pinning Aziraphale against a tree, his long barklike fingers wrapped around the blonde man’s throat. Aziraphale’s eyes meet his, and before Crowley can yell at Sable to get away from him, to hurt Crowley instead of hurting Aziraphale, his friend only shakes his head minutely, calmly, and that quiets the furious terror in Crowley’s heart somewhat. Still, he thrashes about uselessly, gag muffling his cries.

“I could kill you like this easy,” Sable says in a low growl, soundly ignoring Crowley, “snap your neck and let your flesh marinate in your blood before I eat you. And maybe then this hunger will be satisfied, and I would be freed from it for weeks, maybe months. You should’ve gone, Aziraphale. The world can be so cruel to people as soft and kind as you.”

“But you won’t,” Aziraphale says, a hand coming up to rest gently on Sable’s own long monstrous hand, the moss on it shushing quietly as Azirphale pats it. “Eat me. You would’ve then, as soon as I stepped into this forest.”

Sable makes a frustrated noise, and he lets go, pivoting and bounding so he's settled furthest from Aziraphale in the small glen they’re in. “You are testing me,” the creature says piteously. “You know what I am, yet you’re not scared. I threaten to eat you, yet you continue to trust me. What kind of witchfinder are you?”

“Not a very good one, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale quips, sitting down gingerly. The creature huffs out a laugh. 

“I’m not a very good wendigo either,” Sable confides quietly. He places a hand over his stomach, vine covered claws clenched. “You don’t know what it’s like, Aziraphale, this eternal hunger.”

“Tell me,” Aziraphale says.

Sable considers him carefully with his empty eyes. He must’ve found what he was looking for -- he nods, wide shoulders relaxing. Crowley lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Really, Aziraphale is much better at talking at creatures than he is, with his gentle unassuming ways.

“I love forests, I wasn’t lying about that,” the wendigo begins. Aziraphale nods for him to continue. “Every year my buddies and I leave our phones, drive up to the cabin, and relax there in total isolation. That was also true. There were always the four of us -- Wesley, Hannah, Diana, and I. They loved hunting, but I’ve always thought it was cruel.

“That year, my cousin drove up to join us. Timothy was a good kid, stupid but in a well-meaning kind of way. All day he’d been trying to impress Diana, and her, being as kind as she was, humoured him.” Something like a nostalgic smile drifts from the wendigo. “She is… she _was_ a good person.”

“You were sweet on her,” Aziraphale says.

Sable shrugs. “What can I say, I have a type,” he says, the tilt of his head somehow cocky. A vine comes up to stroke Aziraphale’s cheek before it darts away. Lord does Crowley hate him. 

“Cheeky.”

The creature shrugs as he leans back. “It was a good day. Hot, but it was cool under the trees. My friends were eager to hunt, and as soon as we got there, they packed up their gear and stalked away. Tim went with them, naturally, wanting to impress a cute girl.

“There’s a part of the woods that we stay away from. It doesn’t look any different everywhere else, just a denser crop of trees. Still, we were warned never to venture there, that nothing good will ever come of it.

“Tim was that age where he thought ignoring rules was cool and impressive. He slipped away unnoticed by the group, and when he came back to the cabin, he had half an antler in his hands.” A skeletal hand comes up to trace his own broken antler, before he goes on, “He was as pleased as punch, proud of this thing he’d stolen from the forbidden part of the woods. He won’t let go of it, bragging about putting it up on his wall. We of course didn’t know how insidious that thing was until later on.” An intense sorrow emanates from the large creature, his shoulders hunching into himself.

Aziraphale holds up a comforting hand. “You don’t- if it’s too difficult, you don’t have to-” 

“You asked,” the creature says. “And I… I haven’t told anyone this. I’m so tired of lying and hiding and,” he sighs heavily, gesturing at his own long body, “and this.”

“Then I’ll listen,” Aziraphale says gently, “however long you’ll need to tell this story.” Crowley, who is very much uncomfortably hanging from a tree whines in protest. Aziraphale cuts him a _look_ before turning back to Sable.

“You are kind,” Sable says. “Too kind.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I can be cruel.”

The creature chuckles. “I’d like to see that.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Cheeky.”

Sitting up straighter, the wendigo continues his story, “There were little things at first. Vegetarian Hannah tearing into a piece of meat, Wesley refusing to share any of his chips- crisps. And it steadily got worse through the night. I forgot who or what started it really, we ended up all screaming at each other, accusing each other of stealing and eating each other’s food. 

“And there’s that… not quite hunger, no, not yet. Just this deep feeling of dissatisfaction, the knowledge that nothing will ever be enough.

“At some point, I remember standing back, dazed and angry, and Diana looked at me confusedly even as she clutched at her sides. _We're friends,_ she’d whispered, disbelievingly. And I was almost- I almost believed her.

“I don’t know what happened, but somehow in the midst of all of this chaos, Timothy had managed to get ahold of Diana’s gun. He shot Wesley first, and-” Sable’s voice trembles, and he takes a moment to compose himself. A wave of grief washes over Crowley, something not unlike a deep sorrow chasing after it. “Wesley’s my oldest friend,” the wendigo continues. “My only friend for the longest time, but that didn’t matter in the end as I stood there, watching my cousin devour his food. My dumb well-meaning cousin killed my best friend for some cheap jerky and half a moonpie. 

“Hannah shot him after in a panic, and blasted his leg off with her shotgun. There was- there was blood and shrapnel all over Tim, and that broke us from whatever brief but destructive spell that was. I remember coming to, stumbling to my knees in shock. Hannah screamed and- and I can still remember the absolute horror in her face, at what she had done- at what she had _become_. She ran away, stumbling into the darkness. 

“Diana wanted to look for her, and I asked her to stay, _please stay_. Whatever shit had happened in the cabin, it’s still better than being out in the woods at night, prey to whatever haunts it. _I’ll_ _be back soon_ , she’d said. I remember that too. I can’t remember how long I’d waited for her in that fucking cabin, holding my cousin as we both starved, but I remember what she’d said.”

“She never came back,” Aziraphale says quietly.

“No,” Sable says just as quietly, “she never did.” 

“Even though that fugue of confusion and anger and dissatisfaction had lessened somewhat, it was still there, clouding our judgement. Somehow, it never occurred to us that we could look for the keys to Wesley’s truck, drive down to town, ask for help for us and for our friends. We stayed there for days… weeks. It all blended together in this constant thrum of agony and sadness. And soon… soon Tim died, hungry and in pain.” The creature bows his head, as if in mourning. Aziraphale reaches out to pat the closest rope of vine, and Sable looks up, something not unlike grateful fondness wafting from him. He sits up straighter, and soldiers on shakily, “One day I woke up and his lips were blue and his eyes saw nothing. I was too thirsty, too dry and strung out to cry over his dead body.

“Still, I stayed there in all that mess and death. Waiting for her to find me, to come back to me.” He pauses, head dipped low. “I’d thought, maybe it’ll be worth it as long as I see her again.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, and even from a distance, Crowley can see his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I’m sorry.”

The wendigo shakes his head. “It’s happened. It’s done,” he says, even though his sadness is palpable.

“It shouldn’t have!”

“You, Witchfinder Aziraphale Fell,” Sable says, a faint trace of amusement in his smooth voice, “you of all people should know that evil doesn’t care if it should or should not have happened. It just does.”

“I do so wish it were more discerning.”

The creature huffs a laugh out. “So do I.” He dips his head again. “Do you know- I guess you would know. No one is born a wendigo.”

Aziraphale nods. “It’s a curse.”

“An eternal curse.” With a heavy sigh, Sable continues, “I stayed in that cabin for too long. There was no food left, no water, just my cousin’s dead… My cousin's body. I don’t know when it began, but I started to hear this- this sweet voice. It’s odd, now that I’m out of there and out of whatever insidious influence it had over me, but it made sense to me at that time, that this sweet alien voice existed. _He would satisfy you_ , it had said, emanating from that broken antler, _he would quench your thirst and feed your hunger_. I resisted for days, tried to drown it out with loud singing and screams, but it went on and on, tempting so persistently. _You would be dead before she comes back_ , it had said, _unless you eat. Eat him, eat him, eat him_." 

He stops, looking at Aziraphale beseechingly. “And- you’ve got to understand, I wasn’t myself. I didn’t even know if I was still myself. But before long it had broken me, beaten me down until I was nothing but a husk of a man who couldn’t feel anything but this huge looming emptiness in my stomach." He clutches at his narrow middle again with clawed hands. " _Just a finger_ , I’d thought, _maybe another, just to tide me over_. And then it became an arm, and then a leg, and then his neck, and before long I found myself gorging on his flesh, uncaring of the bloody mess I was making, uncaring that it was my cousin I was devouring.” He pauses, large shoulders hunching into himself again. Crowley recognises that: the weight of a heavy guilt weighing someone down.

“For the first time since that- that harrowing night, I felt… satisfied,” the wendigo whispers in horror, “I felt as if there can’t possibly be anything more that I can want; not my friends, not Diana, and certainly not food. It’s shameful but I… I was weak still, but that hunger then was fully satiated.

“I don’t know how much time passed then. I laid there, soaked in Tim’s blood, feeling as if I will never starve again. I remember counting spots in the ceiling, waiting for that hunger to come back. And then something snapped inside me, and my bones started breaking one by one. My skull was growing and cracking, and eventually, I passed out from the pain.” The wendigo pauses, a hand pausing over the cracks on his skull, the carvings that look like elaborate tattoos.

“Was that-” Aziraphale asks unsurely.

Sable nods. “When I came to, I looked like this. I thought I’d gone insane -- seeing myself as the physical manifestation of what I’ve become. A cannibal. A- a _monster_ ,” he says in shameful self-hatred. “I remember bounding out of the cabin, screaming and howling in horror. For days, I would search for rivers and puddles to see if it was a trick of the light, if I really was this… this creature.

“And then the hunger came. It was- _is_ sharp, demanding. It’s always there, this invisible thing, clutching at you even as you try to loosen its hold with paltry attempts at eating your everyday meals or the odd live animal. You can’t escape it, you can’t forget it -- not when the pain of it is embedded in every fibre of your being.

“Somehow. Somehow I knew the only way to satisfy it was to eat another human.”

Crowley knows this, but still he can’t stifle his gasp. Aziraphale and he exchange glances, and Crowley is pleased he’s not the only one invested in this story.

“I went back to the cabin,” Sable continues on, even when it seemed to pain him to do so, “fully intending to eat Wesley. I loomed over him, so much larger than my tall, substantial friend, and I remember taking his arm, drawing him closer when…” He pauses, running a hand through the leaves on the ground. “When I couldn’t. 

“Wesley’s my _best_ friend. This- this flood of memories came and washed over me, making me remember him and my friends.... how it is to be human. I transformed back in a snap, the pain almost inconsequential to my utter relief. When I was back to me again, to my good human body, I cried so long and so hard I didn’t think I had any water left in me after.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeats.

Sable shakes his head. “It’s a good thing, remembering you’re human,” he tells him. “And I’m lucky I did. I can’t imagine having gone insane in that- well, in this.” He gestures over his long form. 

“I- I’ve seen it happen,” Aziraphale confesses, and he looks over to Crowley again. Crowley nods -- he remembers their trip to Canada too. They were sent to kill a wendigo, and while they were armed with Anathema’s strongest restraining spells, they weren’t able to talk to it like they can with Sable. That creature had been far too gone, far too animalistic, that they had ended up having to kill it.

“I don’t want to know,” Sable says, sighing heavily, although he asks, “did you… try to save it?”

Aziraphale smiles sadly. “We did.”

Sadness drifts from the wendigo. “Thank you.”

“We’re awful witchfinders,” Aziraphale says. “We don’t always do what we’re told.” This is true, although Crowley knows Aziraphale never disobeyed as much as twisted whatever head office told them to do until it suited his own code. As for Crowley, well. He never really cared for head office in the first place.

Sable laughs. “I hope you know how admirable you are,” he says.

“We do try.”

He laughs again, although his tone turns sober right after. “Wrenching control back is difficult,” he continues, “it’s even harder when that thing that wants to control you is more powerful than you are.

“For a second, I thought I had escaped that hunger, that forcing myself back to being human meant I had cast out whatever it was that made me into this creature. But then it had come back, more painful and more powerful than ever. I knew what it wanted, and it got angrier the longer I refused it.

“The next night, I forced myself to transform. The hunger was almost unbearable, and I knew if I stayed in the cabin for longer, I would end up eating Wesley. And I can’t- I _shouldn’t_." He clenches his hands. "So I ran into the woods, searching, foraging for anything I can eat. I ate mushrooms, fruits, bark -- even dirt, but it was still there, thrumming under my skin. 

“I must’ve foraged for days before I found a young buck. By then, I knew I’d completely lose myself if I don’t satiate the hunger soon. We stared at each other motionless, before it leapt away. I chased after it, bounding like a great big animal, and when I caught it easily, I devoured it like I- like I- to Timmy," he stammered. Clearing his throat, he goes on, "There was nothing left of it when I was done. The hunger was still there, but it was less, as if I’ve eaten a piece of candy when I needed a large steak. I spent the next few days hunting animals, trying to kill them as quickly and painlessly as ever.

“With all that hunting, I learned that in this form I am much faster and much stronger than I ever was. I could keep up with the fastest animals, I could climb the highest branch. For the first time ever, I could reach where the trees ended and the skies began.

“When I felt better, when the hunger wasn’t threatening to take over me, I went back to the cabin. I took Wesley, brought him deep into the woods and buried him. I found Hannah shortly after, and I buried her too right next to him. They deserve far more respect that I can ever give them but that…" he trails off sadly. "That was all I could give them. 

"Diana… I spent days- no, maybe weeks looking for her. I never did find her.

“I didn’t want to return to society when I had changed so much. Sometimes, when I hid in the woods, I could smell humans from afar, and I knew that I would always have this desire to eat them. This hunger, the guilt over- over all that has happened kept me from returning too soon.

“But I knew I had to. If not for me, for Diana, for that hope that maybe someone else might find her and save her when I couldn’t.”

“But no one ever did,” Aziraphale says.

“No,” the creature says sadly, “and I- I never told her. I never told her.” There’s so much pain in him, so much grief and sorrow that it makes Crowley dizzy. 

Aziraphale glances up at Crowley minutely, before his eyes skitter away. “Sometimes it needs to be said,” he says softly. 

“Yes.”

“Is this why you left Canada?”

Sable nods, sorrow etched in the sloped lines of his shoulders and the bow of his head. “I couldn’t bear the guilt. Everyday I remember their faces -- Wesley, Hannah, Diana.... Tim. Poor Tim. I remember devouring Timmy and I-,” he confesses, voice tear soaked. “I couldn’t talk to anyone about this- sometimes I think it couldn’t have been real. And I tried to forget, again and again. But this hunger comes back and it haunts me, taunts me with their faces. Being there, being so close to everything- I had to leave. I’d resolved myself to being alone for the rest of my life with no human contact whatsoever."

"And you moved here." Sable nods. 

“How could I not fall in love with Tadfield? The wide beaches, those cliffs, these damn nice people. I wanted to stay here, wanted to help these people as much as their own town helped me heal.”

“You became the town pediatrician then,” Aziraphale says. He frowns. “How can you stand it, being surrounded by people all day?”

“I have my ways,” Sable says. “I try not to touch people unnecessarily. I have gloves and masks, and when I have to touch them, I immediately sanitise. It’s not ideal, but it’s… it works for now.” He looks up suddenly. “I know what you’re going to ask next. Luke Masters.”

Aziraphale’s face falls a bit guiltily. “I have to,” he says.

“You’re soft,” Sable coos fondly. Crowley bristles. The wendigo looks up to him, finally acknowledging his presence since he woke up. To Aziraphale, he says, “I suppose you want _him_ down here with us.”

“If you don’t mind. His face is so terribly red now,” Aziraphale says, although his eagerness is plain on his face.

Sable chuckles. With a grand sweep of a thin arm, his vines gently lower Crowley to the ground, particularly careful with his neck. They pull him closer to Aziraphale, only freeing him when the blonde hurries to his side.

“Crowley,” he says as Crowley tries to sit up, only to find that it makes his head spin when he does.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley coughs, throat dry and unused.

Aziraphale beams at him, eyes shining. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Crowley’s. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he whispers. Crowley wills his hand to move up to stroke his hair, but it stays uselessly motionless. Instead, he closes his eyes as well, basking in this a bit more than he thinks he should.

“I apologise,” Sable says, “I may have used too much pollen on him. He really does irritate me.”

Aziraphale huffs a laugh out, sitting up straight even as he arranges Crowley so the taller man’s head rests on his lap. “He has a talent for that.” Crowley wishes he were strong enough to swat at him.

“About Luke Masters. I’m sure you’ve heard much about him.” Aziraphale nods for him to continue. “He owned the building I use for my clinic. He held this power over me, threatening to raise the rent every time, throwing racial slurs in an attempt to cow me. But I know what I am, and I know what I’m capable of. I know I can snap his neck with no effort at all.”

“But you didn’t.”

Sable shakes his head. “He is a little man. A little, smug, insufferable, miserable man. I don’t care enough for him to change myself to destroy him.” He pauses. “I… I do have an alibi for that night, but I’m afraid that’s all I might have.”

“Anything,” Aziraphale says, “just anything will do.”

Sable reaches to the tree behind him, his hands stretching and stretching until they resemble bark, wrapping around it easily like wooden ropes. When he pulls his hand away, it shortens back into long fingers, and in his palm rests an old silver mobile. Presenting it to Aziraphale, he says, “I was calling my mother when it happened. I- we don’t talk anymore. I know if we do, she’ll ask me to come home, and I… I know I will. But, just hearing her voice is enough.”

Aziraphale cradles it carefully, as if it were something precious. Thumbing through it, he says, “You were seen close to where the murder was committed.”

Sable nods. “I was calling her when I heard some very angry shouts, smelled so many angry humans. I emerged from the forest just when I saw a flash of fire. It felt… strange, like something ancient and familiar all at once. It- I can’t believe I’m saying this, it scared me. So I scurried back here.”

“Something familiar,” Aziraphale murmurs to himself. Crowley can practically see the gears turning in that pretty head, Aziraphale coming into a new theory. “Have you heard of some sort of town legend about, oh, I don’t know, a wide blade of some sort?”

“No, but…” Sable trails off thoughtfully. “Hmmm.”

“Hmmm?” Aziraphale prompts.

“Scarlett -- she runs the Red & Egret. Once when we were both pleasantly buzzed, she told me that she had to fight to change the pub’s name. Luke Masters, who owned that building, thought that the old name was fine enough, but Scarlett managed to convince him to change it somehow.”

Aziraphale perks up. “What was it before?”

“The Red Sword.”

“I’m sorry I drove the Bentley,” Aziraphale’s babbling as he flits around their room, trying to tidy it as best as he can. Crowley had been annoyed that his earlier scuffle with Sable wasn’t as action packed as he’d thought it was, having only really messed up the bed and knocked over a few of Aziraphale’s books, but, he thinks, at least it’s not too much that Aziraphale can use it as a convenient distraction. “It was unavoidable, really, unless I ran all the way to where I thought you would be, and you know how terrible I am at that, running. Running anywhere for too long, I mean.” He pauses, straightening a stack of books. “I dislike running.”

Crowley clears his throat, pushing himself off the wall where he’s leaned. The pollen had worn off on their way back to the hotel, and Crowley’d been pleased to find that his legs still function after having been hung from a tree for hours. “I know. Angel-”

“And I hit nothing, did I? She’s still a beauty, your car. I was panicking, trying to hurry along as best as I could, but I knew you wouldn’t forgive me if I even got a scratch on her. I know you too well. But anyway, Raven made it easier for me to find him. I suppose he really needed someone to talk to, the poor thing-”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupts. His friend freezes. “Please.”

Aziraphale turns to him slowly, hands coming up to fidget with his shirt. “I- What is it, dear friend?”

“You came for me,” Crowley says, and he knows there’s always been that sort of security in their friendship, that neither of them could ever really leave the other to suffer alone, but this with Aziraphale’s earlier confession-

It’s a bit overwhelming.

“You drove my car,” Crowley continues.

“Carefully,” Aziraphale interjects.

“You drove my car carefully,” Crowley repeats, “tracked down a wendigo, and confronted him even knowing full well how easily he could’ve killed you. For me.”

“I’ve told you before, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his eyes looking down and away from Crowley’s. “I would choose you. Everytime.”

And Crowley can’t stand this -- can’t stand Aziraphale looking so miserable and rejected as if- as if Crowley could ever have the capacity to refuse him anything. Buoyed by the song his heart can’t stop singing, that hope he’d been carefully tending blooming across his chest, he crosses the room in three long strides. He wants to be suave about this, as smooth as Sable would probably be. Instead he finds himself almost crowding Aziraphale, his hands cradling his round face gently, carefully, nervously. He wants to ask him if he can do this, if he’s allowed to do this, but when Aziraphale’s eyes meet his, he leans in immediately, pressing his lips against Aziraphale’s.

It’s awkward, the kiss too nervy and desperate to be anything but. Their teeth clack together almost painfully, and their noses press together in an unfortunate angle, but then Aziraphale gasps, and Crowley tilts his head and deepens the kiss. There’s no stars bursting under his eyelids, no shower of glitter and fluttery butterfly things. Just this: his legs numb in excitement, his heart thrumming a steady loud beat, a warmth suffusing his cheeks, his face, his fingers where they’re caressing Aziraphale’s face.

It’s Aziraphale who pulls away, but only for a little bit. “I’m not a replacement,” he whispers.

“Never,” Crowley says, kissing him again and again. “Never.” Aziraphale’s been _it_ for him for years.

“I’m still cross with you,” Aziraphale says, even as his arms come up to wrap around Crowley’s waist.

“I know.”

“But I,” Aziraphale kisses him. “Crowley, I-”

Crowley returns his kiss, trying to pour all his pining and adoration and joy into it. Aziraphale wimpers low in his throat, his arms pulling Crowley closer to him. “I know,” Crowley says when they part, resting his forehead against his. When he opens his eyes, there’s a soft, tender bend on Aziraphale’s lips, the fan of his lashes damp.

Aziraphale opens his eyes, and this close, Crowley is suddenly reminded of how disarmingly pretty they are. “I’m glad,” Aziraphale says with a brilliant smile. “I’m glad.”


End file.
